by Michael Bond
‘The interesting thing about it,’ continued Mr Pickering, ‘is that in all three cases passers-by wouldn’t have given such scenes a second glance. Being French, they certainly didn’t stop to watch my builders tucking in to their lunch. At Glyndebourne they probably looked the other way so as not to be considered rude.’
‘People tend to act the way they are brought up,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘These things are deeply ingrained. What passes for normal in one country is looked on as being totally bizarre in another.’
‘Precisely. The very point I am trying to make. By the same token, when it comes to getting rid of a dog, I don’t think it would enter the head of the average Frenchman, or an Englishman come to that, to use a hand grenade in the hope that he would pick it up and blow himself to Kingdom Come. Poison perhaps, or in an extreme case a bullet from a gun after dark, but not a grenade in full daylight.
‘By the same token I think one can rule out terrorism in the accepted meaning of the word.
‘My feeling, for what it’s worth, is that whoever was responsible for both that and the blowing up of the coffin wanted to make a statement in the clearest possible manner.
‘It also strikes me that you must have been under surveillance for rather more than a few days for them to know about your interest in pétanque and the fact that Pommes Frites had a habit of joining in. Also, whoever was responsible didn’t just happen to be passing by.
‘The whole thing leaves a distinctly unpleasant taste. Much as one abhors terrorism in any shape or form, at least the followers of Al-Qaeda are fighting for something they believe in. Blackmailers are a particularly despicable form of life. Get rich quick at any price. Coercion at its very worst. In this case it is big money they are after, and from the style of their thinking, if push comes to shove, the loss of human life is a minor consideration.’
Glancing at his watch as it emitted a bleep, he made a face, then signalled for the bill. ‘I have to leave you, I fear.
‘We will keep in touch. In the meantime, don’t forget Rusik.’
‘Rusik?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse had to think for a moment.
‘Rusik and Pommes Frites have, or had … a lot in common. Rusik knew something his master didn’t, but he was unable to communicate what it was. Consequently, he suffered the ultimate penalty in a manner calculated to show both contempt for those in authority and at the same time serve as a warning to others.
‘It is still my belief that Pommes Frites knows something. He may not even be aware of what it is himself at the moment, but because of that, someone is out to get him and he is not exactly hard to spot.’
Mr Pickering held out his hand. ‘I suggest it is perhaps wise if we are not seen together just at this moment. People might put two and two together and make rather more than four.’
It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse as being an eminently sensible suggestion. In the circumstances, following a set routine had been a cardinal error and he ought to have known better. Having given it a few minutes, he made his way back along the rue Saint Dominique. Pausing at the point where it joined the rue Fabert, he peered cautiously round the corner. The boules area had now been cordoned off by yellow incident tape, but the crowds had dispersed, along with the players, and, as far as he could see, so, for the time being at least, had the police.
Taking the bull by the horns, he signalled Pommes Frites to stay close to his side and together they made their way towards the pedestrian entrance of the car park. Having located his car, he got down on his knees and felt along the underside of the bodywork.
Almost immediately he made contact with a small plastic box. It was held in place by means of a magnet; one tug and it came away in his hand. He held it up to the light. Not much bigger than the size of a cigarette pack, it was clearly a battery operated transponder; in other words, the transmitting end of a Global Positioning System. He wondered how long his 2CV had been appearing as a moving dot on someone’s PC screen. The device certainly hadn’t been in place before the storm; he’d given the car a thorough going over shortly afterwards. Nor had he noticed anything untoward when he’d given it another clean before setting off for the funeral.
Mr Pickering was right. Someone, somewhere, must be sufficiently interested in his movements to have gone to the trouble of installing the device. It was yet more food for thought. Slipping the object into his jacket pocket, he packed the boules set under the front seat and led the way back up the stairs and out onto the esplanade.
Heading in the direction of Le Guide’s headquarters and catching sight of the familiar green of a moto-crotte street cleaner approaching, he paused for a moment before mounting the pavement on the far side of the rue Falbert.
Having spotted the man at the controls cast a suspicious glance in Pommes Frites’ direction, it was a case of better safe than sorry. As a body, operators of the machines with their mobile vacuum hoses were not noted for being over-zealous in their regard for canine susceptibilities at the best of times, and it was probably his last sortie of the day.
Taking advantage of the momentary diversion as man and machine went past, he removed the transponder from his pocket and placed it on the rear mud shield. The operation took less than a second, and the notion that before the end of the day the device would literally end up in the merde struck him as being an eminently satisfactory solution to the problem.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Thank goodness you are both safe, Aristide.’ Monsieur Leclercq came forward to greet Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites as they entered the Holy of Holies.
‘When I first heard the bang I assumed it was a car backfiring. Even after Rambaud reported there had been an attempted assassination somewhere nearby I didn’t put two and two together.
‘It was Véronique who insisted we look into the matter, so I sent her out to reconnoitre the ground. It wasn’t until she returned with the news that the boules area had been cordoned off and you were both missing that I began to fear the worst.’
‘I am sorry if you were alarmed unnecessarily,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We were taking refuge in a nearby café.’
‘Very wise,’ said the Director.
He crossed to the windows and peered through one of the slatted blinds. ‘It is getting a little too close for comfort, Pamplemousse. First the blowing up of the coffin, now this. What kind of world are we living in where these things can happen?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse exchanged glances with Véronique. ‘Luckily, Monsieur, your office is on the top floor.’
It was like water off a duck’s back. Monsieur Leclercq obviously agreed with him wholeheartedly.
‘Presumably it is the same evil hand at work,’ he continued, returning to his desk. ‘That being the case, Aristide, I suggest you take the utmost care in future. We can ill afford to lose your services at this juncture, but I see you have some leave due …’
‘Merci, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘However, it wasn’t me they were after.’
‘What!’ The Director stared at him. ‘Then who?’ He glanced down at Pommes Frites. ‘You don’t mean …’
‘If it hadn’t been for the prompt action of a very good friend of mine he wouldn’t be here now.’
As succinctly as possible, he explained what had happened.
‘This is terrible, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, when he had finished. ‘But why are they after Pommes Frites? It surely can’t simply be an act of revenge for his part in forestalling what might have been a massacre at the crematorium? If that were the case, to put it bluntly, why go to such bizarre lengths? Why not simply use a gun and have it over and done with?’
‘I suspect the answer to the first question,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is that, like it or not, he is in possession of some vital piece of information which, for the moment at least, he is unable to pass on. He may not even realise the importance of it himself – time alone will tell.
‘As for their using a gun, the person who was respon
sible for saving his life put his finger on it. Explosive devices serve a dual purpose; they eliminate the problem whilst at the same time achieving the maximum amount of publicity. Think what a field day the media would have had in both cases had they been successful.’
Véronique gave a shudder. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘If only he could talk,’ said Monsieur Leclercq.
His expression softened as he gazed across the room at Pommes Frites, on the one hand guarding the water bowl in case it got taken away again, on the other, having heard his name being bandied about, doing his best to follow the course of the conversation, looking from one to the other as they spoke.
‘He is able to communicate most things very clearly when he wants to,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, loyally, ‘but there are times when he plays his cards close to his chest.’
‘One thing is certain, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘From now on he must keep a low profile. I shall never forgive myself if anything happens to him. As I have said before, I feel it is all my fault he became involved in the first place.’
‘Keeping a low profile isn’t what bloodhounds are best at,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They make large targets and they are not used to hiding away.’
‘Have you ever considered some form of disguise?’ asked the Director. ‘I was thinking about it only last night. Cosmetic surgeons can work wonders these days. My wife knows a very good man. I’m sure he could do something about his jowls, for example. A few tucks here and there would alter his appearance out of all recognition. At the same time we could arrange for a top artist in the field of make-up to raise his eyebrows and perhaps have his fur dyed, along with certain other embellishments. I would be more than happy to take Madame Grante into my confidence and make sure no expense is spared. I know she will agree if I explain matters to her. Deep down, she has a soft spot for dogs and we have a special fund for exceptional matters.’
‘It is very kind of you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But what is done cannot always be undone. A bloodhound’s jowls are there for a purpose; they help concentrate their mind on the scent. Without that faculty they are lost. I wouldn’t want to see him having to walk around for the rest of his life wearing a fixed smile on his face to no good purpose.’
‘How about equipping him with some kind of body armour?’ suggested Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I have in mind the sort the American President clearly wears. The poor man is only able to walk in a straight line. You can see that whenever he appears on television. One of these days they will point him in the wrong direction and he will disappear over the horizon.’
‘In Pommes Frites’ case that would be worse than putting him into a strait jacket,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In any case it would only result in drawing even more attention to him.
‘As it is, I hesitate to take him home with me for fear of putting my wife at risk. Doucette has no idea what is going on, and I would rather leave it that way for the time being.’
‘He could stay with me,’ broke in Véronique. ‘It won’t be what he is used to, but I would love to have him.’
‘Certainly not!’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I forbid you to put your own life in jeopardy. Besides, I need your presence in the office. He can stay here with me for the time being.
‘I have decided to make the office flat my headquarters,’ he explained. ‘I am being pressed for an early update on our findings and apart from the fact that I cannot afford to lose time travelling to and fro, the last part of the journey is very deserted late at night. I wouldn’t wish my wife to be worried.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the pros and cons of the suggestion and ended up with the scales heavily weighed against it. Monsieur Leclercq had to be stopped at all costs.
‘What a splendid idea, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘I am sure you will soon get used to the amount of work involved. A big plus will be taking him for a walk in the mornings. Twice round the Esplanade should be ample. There is no need to do it more than once in the evening. He likes having plenty of time for his dinner. It shouldn’t be too large, otherwise he is inclined to snore, but I can give Monsieur a list of his favourite dishes and how he likes them cooked.
‘Then there is the small matter of rubbing his nose with Vaseline every night before he goes to bed. Bloodhounds suffer from dry nose syndrome. It upsets their sense of smell, and I’m sure you will agree it is especially important to keep Pommes Frites’ in good working order at the moment. It has been particularly bad this year with all the hot weather we have been having.
‘I would suggest, Monsieur, that in any case you don’t go out too late at night. Whoever was responsible for the latest attempt on his life is clearly conversant with our daily routine, and if they see me leaving without him they will put two and two together. I’m not sure how many others remain in the building overnight at this time of the year, but rest assured, Pommes Frites is a light sleeper and he almost always wakes at the first creak. If he shares your bed, as I am sure he will want to, there will be no cause for alarm …’
‘May I make a suggestion, Monsieur?’ Reading the signs on her boss’s face, Véronique broke into the conversation. ‘How would it be if you stay in a hotel for the time being? We could find one which welcomes dogs. Not the Pommes d’Or, of course, but there are others …
‘As it happens, only the other day I began preparing a list of suitable establishments to go with our new symbol …’
As she hurried out of the room to fetch her notes Monsieur Pamplemousse sought to keep the idea afloat before the Director went cold on the suggestion.
‘How about L’Hôtel?’ he suggested, reminded of it by his conversation with Mr Pickering. ‘It has the merit of being tucked away in the rue des Beaux-Arts. It is also very cosmopolitan and it caters for the rich and famous. As Monsieur will be aware, things have changed a good deal since Oscar Wilde stayed there. They do say it is even possible to sleep in the very bed he once occupied, complaining to the last about the wallpaper and the fact that he was “dying beyond his means”.’
‘Hardly an attractive thought, Pamplemousse,’ boomed the Director. ‘He said a lot of things in his time, but I doubt if he mentioned the size of the rooms there. I am told they are mostly too small to swing a kitten let alone a mature bloodhound.’
Much to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s relief, Véronique reappeared at that moment brandishing a handful of brochures.
‘It’s a pity you won’t be travelling in on Virgin Atlantic,’ she said. ‘Pommes Frites would qualify for a “Flying Paw” reward, entitling him to a T-shirt and a sparkling tag. On the other hand, with British Airways he would have to check in as excess baggage …’ She glanced across the room. ‘That wouldn’t come cheap!
‘There is an even bigger choice of hotels than I thought,’ she added hastily.
‘“Given advance notice, any dog currently taking up residence at the George V can have its name embroidered on the bed cover” … that doesn’t sound like Pommes Frites.
‘Then there’s the Crillon … “The Crillon welcomes canine guests with a specially engraved collar tag, along with a designer sleeping basket containing a buffalo-hide bone, a bottle of its favourite mineral water, and the services of a bilingual vet … The daily menu includes thinly sliced breast of chicken …”
‘Failing that, if you were to stay at the Trianon Palace, they offer a package deal where a dog can share a de luxe double room with its owner and enjoy round-the-clock room service. Poached hambone with vegetables is on the menu, followed by yoghurt. And they are given a miniature bottle of “Oh My Dog!” perfume when they leave.
‘On the other hand, there is the Meurice. They allow clients to hold dog parties in their Belle Etoile suite …’
Véronique’s voice trailed away as Monsieur Leclercq suppressed a shudder. Obviously, he was rapidly going off the boil.
‘Embroidered bedspreads,’ he snorted. ‘Name tags; round-the-clock service; parties … all these things
negate the whole object of the exercise. What happened to anonymat? Anonymat is the key word. Unless we can preserve anonymity the whole operation is off.’
Véronique hesitated. ‘There is one other,’ she said doubtfully, detaching a sheet of plain paper from the rest. ‘I know you will say I’m what the Americans call “reference book impaired”, but I came across it while I was surfing the web. It is listed under Hotdogholidays.com.
‘I’m afraid it isn’t very central. In fact, it is on the outer edge of the 16th arrondissement; very close to the Bois de Boulogne …’
‘It might as well be in the middle of Outer Mongolia,’ said the Director gloomily.
‘I felt Monsieur might find it a little, how shall I say? … not up to your usual standards,’ said Véronique. ‘However, it is particularly recommended by the Kennel Club of America. They list “dog training” and “conversational aids”, whatever they might be, under extramural activities. If it is a case of being anonymous I doubt if you will find anyone there you know, or vice versa …’
Good girl, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. You’ve got the message. Game, set and match!
It was now or never.
‘If I might also make a suggestion, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘Véronique has given me an idea. What better way would there be of preserving your anonymity, and that of Le Guide’s too, if you were to check in, not as a Frenchman, but as one of our friends from across the Atlantic?’
‘You mean … an American?’
Steady, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. One idea at a time.
He waited while Monsieur Leclercq registered first of all surprise, then wonder, followed by signs of his interest having been aroused.
‘Your command of the latest American buzz words is, if I may say so, Monsieur, legendary. Then again, I vividly recall the piece you once wrote for the staff magazine telling of your early thespian activities when you were still at school. It couldn’t have been easy taking on the part of Robespierre at the tender age of thirteen. Given your background, playing the part of a man who led such a frugal life can hardly be called type casting. I dearly wish I had been there to see it, although you made the whole thing come alive for L’Escargot’s readers.