Monsieur Pamplemousse & the Secret Mission (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  ‘Even the pineapple had not been treated with res­pect. Clearly it had spent over-long in a refrigerator – upright at that. It should have been kept at room temperature on its side in a paper bag and turned regularly. Keep a pineapple upright and all the flavour disappears. Also it should be cut downwards with the grain – not across.’

  Madame Louise gazed at him curiously as she digested the information. ‘You speak knowledgeably,’ she ventured at last. ‘Justine told me you were making notes over your meal. Are you in the same business?’

  Realising that in giving vent to his indignation he might have gone too far, Monsieur Pamplemousse interrupted her hastily.

  ‘I am interested, that is all. I was making notes for a book I am writing. It is set here, in the Loire Valley. Your Madame Terminé would do better if she attended to the needs of your customers rather than their actions – which are none of her business.’

  Turning to remove a kettle from the stove, Madame Louise gave a laugh. It transformed her features. Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his bad temper evaporate. As it did so there came a sudden feeling of guilt and a desire to help. She reached up for a tin. ‘Justine would not be pleased if she heard you call her that.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘She would be more at home in a station buffet making sure everyone caught the last train.’

  The Director’s aunt gave a wry smile as she added water to the cup. ‘All the same, I do not know what I would do without her. Doing the cooking is bad enough. Finding the food to fit the menu is worse. Sometimes I have to go as far as Tours.’

  ‘If you’ll forgive my saying so,’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that is quite the wrong way to go about things. You should always make the menu fit the food.’ How many times had he heard chefs utter those very words? You went to the market early and bought well, then you returned and wrote the menu around the food.

  ‘If you buy the best of ingredients you can never really fail. It is more than half the battle. You may end up with something you hadn’t intended, but it won’t be an out and out disaster.’

  Well, hardly ever, he added under his breath. There were always exceptions to every rule.

  Brushing a strand of hair from her eyes, Madame Louise looked up at him. ‘That is a man talking. Men are always so full of confidence. It is hard for a woman when she is on her own with no one to turn to.’

  As he took the tray from her Monsieur Pample­mousse was reminded once again of the Director’s words.

  ‘I understand. I’m sorry if I sounded a little abrupt just now, but you did ask.’

  ‘You were quite right to tell me. Perhaps if more people did that, life would be easier. Do you have any more complaints?’

  ‘Since you ask, there is a little matter of the plumbing in my room. There appears to be a problem with the waste pipe from the hand basin. It connects with the bidet. I’m afraid I had an accident earlier this evening. If you have an iron I could borrow I would be grateful.’

  As he made his way up the stairs Monsieur Pample­mousse felt himself being watched. Glancing back down he saw that the Director’s aunt had come out of the kitchen and was busying herself at the reception desk. Catching his eye she waved good night.

  ‘Watch it, Pamplemousse,’ he thought. ‘Watch it.’

  The bed in his room had been made up for the night. The sheets and counterpane turned back. A softer pillow replaced the round, hard sausage that had been there when he first arrived. It had been fluffed up to make it more comfortable and inviting.

  He put the tisane down on the floor beside the only armchair and crossed to the French windows. The doors were ajar behind drawn curtains, but the shutters were closed, making the room feel airless despite the cooling down after the heat of the day. He decided to open them for a while, at least until it was time to put Pommes Frites to bed.

  Outside all was quiet; the shops and houses mostly shuttered like his own room. In the time it had taken to reach the upper floor via the kitchen dusk had fallen. Apart from the lights of the hotel, the only illumination came from the Sanisette below.

  He glanced down at it and as he did so he gave a start. Something very odd appeared to be happening to the roof. At first he thought it was a cat and then he decided it was the wrong shape; it was much too tall and slender, more like a rolled umbrella. It looked like – it couldn’t possibly be, of course, but it looked as if a long loaf of bread was sticking out.

  Even as he watched, it rose higher in the air and began waving to and fro like a short-sighted elephant reaching up with its trunk for some out of reach delicacy.

  Turning back into the room he made a dive for his working case. A moment later he was back on the balcony again, focusing his binoculars in the direction of the toilet. Issued by Le Guide to its staff so that they could furnish reports on the scenery while on their travels, they were normally set at infinity, but at last the object he’d been searching for swam into view.

  He’d been right; it was a loaf of bread. To be precise, a baguette. A baguette which, at the very moment of coming into sharp focus, disappeared from view again into the depths of the Sanisette. For a moment or two he held the glasses in position, wondering if the wine at dinner had been more potent than he’d bargained for, or whether he was experiencing the first symptoms of a response to his gastronomic experiments, a blurring of his senses, but he knew what he’d seen.

  Pommes Frites eyed his master sleepily as he leaped over the lion’s head and dashed past him for the second time in as many minutes. Normally he would have been only too pleased to join in the fun; it would have been an automatic reaction. Give him someone or something going at speed and he was after it like a shot – the faster it went the more he liked it. But like his master, Pommes Frites was beginning to feel the after-effects of the meal. He decided that for the time being at least he would remain on the alert, ready to follow on behind at a moment’s notice if required, but until that moment he would attend to his own needs. He had other, more pressing matters on his mind.

  Outside in the square Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed in growing frustration at an illuminated orange sign on the side of the toilet. It bore the word OCCUPÉ.

  He banged on the stainless steel door with his fist. ‘Ouvrez la porte!’

  The silence was unbroken and absolute. He tried again. At least whoever was in there couldn’t get away. Somewhere behind him he heard a shutter being opened and a light came on from an upper window.

  Reaching into his trouser pocket he found a one franc coin and tried inserting it in the slot, but the machine refused it immediately.

  He studied the instructions on the side. A time limit of fifteen minutes was imposed. After that the door opened automatically. Given the fact that the present occupant must have been inside for at least five minutes, possibly more, he shouldn’t have long to wait.

  For a moment he was tempted to call up for Pommes Frites, then he decided against it. He’d made enough noise already. He didn’t want to waken the whole village.

  Almost immediately he received proof that he’d made the right decision. There was a click and a soft whirring noise as the half-round door began to slide open.

  To his surprise a figure dressed from head to foot in black appeared in the opening.

  ‘Pardon, Madame.’ Automatically, as he stood back a little to give her room, he went to raise his hat before realising he wasn’t wearing one. Bent double, a shopping basket clasped behind her back, she sidled past without answering.

  He hesitated, wondering whether or not to challenge her, but with what and on what grounds? Perhaps the toilet was in great demand that night?

  Determined to get to the bottom of the matter he decided to try his luck with the franc again. Once more it was refused. This time doubtless because the machine was going through its cleansing cycle. Thank goodness he hadn’t been taken short. He bent down to re-read the instructions and as he did so there was a sudden flurry of movement from behind.
Before he had time to react something heavy struck him a vicious blow on the back of the head. Over and above the jarring sen­sation in his brain, he was aware of the sound of running feet, and then, as he clawed at the empty air in a vain effort to stop himself from toppling forward, everything went black.

  4

  POMMES FRITES AT LARGE

  The rest of that night passed in a series of fits and starts, a montage of events and impressions which came and went, merging with each other like the opening of an old newsreel. He vaguely remembered coming round and finding himself lying on the cobblestones outside the toilet. They had felt surprisingly damp until he realised it was his own blood. Somehow or other he’d managed to stagger back to the hotel where he must have passed out again, for the next thing he could recall was finding himself sitting up in bed with a jacket round his shoulders.

  He remembered being irritated by all the questions everyone kept throwing at him; looking in vain for Pommes Frites, then for his binoculars. He’d been very worried about his binoculars. They were Leitz Trinovids belonging to Le Guide. Madame Grante in Accounts would not be pleased if he reported them missing. He’d had trouble enough when he’d lost the cap on the 50mm lens of his camera. With the kind of wild logic given only to those who have to deal with other people’s expenses, she had demanded double payment. One for the cap he’d lost, a second for its replacement. In the end he’d bought a new one himself to avoid any further argument.

  After that he must have dropped off to sleep; a drugged, dream-filled sleep from which he struggled awake every now and then to the sound of dogs how­ling. Once or twice he thought he recognised Pommes Frites’ bark amongst them, but each time he fell back into instant dreams; dreams which were mostly to do with being chased by people armed with huge loaves of bread, bread which always turned out to be made of stone like ancient clubs.

  When he finally woke the sun was high in the sky. He lay where he was for a while, allowing his mind to grapple as best it could with the facts at its disposal; the strange surroundings, the events of the night before and the reason for his being there; then he looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven thirty. He’d slept for well over twelve hours. Such a thing hadn’t happened in years.

  The shutters over the balcony doors must have been left open from the previous night, for the sunlight illuminated the room with a translucent glow through the thin curtains.

  Climbing out of bed he crossed the room and pulled them apart. The sudden shock of the sun straight in his eyes caused him to wince. In the square below a woman with a shopping basket who was about to enter the boucherie nudged her companion and pointed up at him. The other woman put a hand to her mouth and said something, then they both laughed.

  Turning back into the room he looked at his reflec­tion in a tall mirror next to a chest of drawers and realised for the first time that he was completely naked. His head was bandaged and he needed a shave.

  On his way to the bathroom he saw with relief that his binoculars were lying on top of the leather case. His clothes were neatly folded over the chair, his jacket carefully draped over a hanger suspended from the wardrobe door handle, otherwise everything was as he’d left it when he came up from dinner the night before.

  Ten minutes later he was lying in the bath, the water almost up to his chin. He wished he’d thought to bring some bath salts with him. The room was devoid of any of the free gifts one had almost come to expect; a sachet of bain moussant would have gone down well at that moment. Apart from anything else the surface of the bath had a rough feel to it, the result of years of scouring with coarse powders. He wondered idly if it was the very same bath the Director had suffered in as a child. It was hard to picture a tiny Director covered in cigarette ash.

  The thought together with the chilly water made him get out sooner than he might have done, and fifteen minutes later, shaved and freshly groomed, he made his way downstairs, but not before making the surprising discovery that the rest of his clothes – the ones that had received the soaking in the bidet, had been pressed and put away in the wardrobe. The shirt was carefully arranged with a piece of pink tissue paper between the folds. The trousers were hanging from a rail.

  When he reached the hall he found the Director’s aunt talking to an elderly man carrying a black bag. Even without a stethoscope round his neck he looked every inch the country doctor.

  They both seemed surprised to see him.

  ‘Shouldn’t you still be in bed?’ Madame Louise reached for a chair.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse held up his hand in polite refusal. ‘I am perfectly all right, thank you.’

  ‘Nevertheless …’ The doctor motioned him to sit. ‘It is as well to be on the safe side. Last night you were anything but all right.’ Taking an instrument from his case he lifted Monsieur Pamplemousse’s eyelids, first the left and then the right, peering at them closely with the aid of a spotlight. ‘You have no difficulty in focusing? No loss of vision?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse went to shake his head and then thought better of it. Doctors were like dentists, they asked you questions under circumstances when it was difficult to reply.

  ‘No vomiting?’

  ‘Not that I am aware of.’

  ‘Good. There are no signs of concussion. They would have appeared by now.’ The doctor stood back. ‘You’ve had a lucky escape.’

  ‘What happened?’ Madame Louise looked at him anxiously. ‘We had a shock when you came back after your walk. Were you attacked?’

  ‘Poof!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse brushed the question to one side, trying to make light of it. ‘It was nothing. A slight accident. I went to use the Sanisette and I must have tripped and fallen awkwardly.’ For the time being he had no wish to discuss the matter with anyone until he’d marshalled his thoughts, least of all with the doctor or Madame Louise.

  ‘I feel it is all my fault.’ The Director’s aunt sounded weary, as if the whole thing was yet another nail in her coffin. ‘I should have warned you about the toilet on your floor. The door is always jamming shut. I keep telling Armand to fix it. There is another on the floor above. As for that monstrosity outside in the square, it has been a source of trouble ever since it was erected. No good will come of it.’

  ‘You had breadcrumbs in your wound!’ said the doctor accusingly. He made it sound like a major crime; an act of self-degradation. ‘If it was some kind of attack then the police must be informed.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse decided it was time to change the subject. ‘I have very little memory of what happened. All I recall is waking up in bed, but how I got there is another matter.’

  ‘You have this lady to thank,’ broke in the doctor.

  ‘And Justine. I couldn’t have managed you by my­self. Getting you up the stairs was hard enough, but then lifting you on to the bed and undressing you.’ Madame Louise blushed. ‘We couldn’t find your pyjamas.’

  ‘They were under my pillow,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. Somehow the thought of being un­dressed by Madame Terminé aroused mixed feelings. He was glad he hadn’t known about it at the time.

  ‘Oh! But …’ She looked as if she was about to say something and then changed her mind. ‘You must be hungry. You haven’t had any breakfast. Let me cook you something. An omelette perhaps?’ She turned to the doctor. ‘An omelette fines herbes wouldn’t hurt would it, Docteur Cornot?’

  The doctor closed his bag. ‘On the contrary.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. He didn’t want to hurt Madame Louise’s feelings, particularly after all she had done for him, but he had a clear mental picture of what any omelette cooked by her would be like. To begin with the eggs would be over-beaten so that they would start off too liquid, then it would be over-cooked; hard in the centre and not baveuse. The herbs would have been added to the mixture before­hand, not whilst it was cooking, so that little bits would have stuck to the pan and much of the flavour lost.

  A thought struck him. ‘Do you have any large potatoes?’

>   ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘Put two in the oven to bake. There is a recipe I know. Oeufs à la Toupinel.’ His mouth began to water. It was a long time since he’d eaten it. It was not something one normally encountered in restaurants.

  ‘In the meantime I must go and look for Pommes Frites. While I am gone you could perhaps prepare me a sauce Mornay if that isn’t too much trouble. I forgot to inflate Pommes Frites’ kennel last night. If he’s been out all night without shelter he will not be pleased.’

  The doctor held out his hand as he made to leave. ‘On the contrary, Monsieur, if your dog is a large bloodhound, and I assume that is the one since he is a stranger to the village, then the last time I saw him he was looking very pleased with himself indeed. Some­what worn out, but undoubtedly pleased.’

  ‘Pleased?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated the word nervously. ‘Why? What has happened?’

  Madame Louise caught the doctor’s eye. ‘I’m afraid Pommes Frites is in disgrace. We have had to put him in the stables out of harm’s way awaiting the arrival of the vétérinaire.’

  ‘The vétérinaire?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his heart miss a beat. ‘Where is he? I must go to him at once.’

  Doctor Cornot picked up his bag. ‘There is nothing wrong with him. At least nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t cure. Although that is not to say it will stay that way. There are those in the village who would wish to see him coupé.’

  ‘Coupé? Pommes Frites coupé?’ Monsieur Pample­mousse’s voice was a mixture of surprise and indig­nation.

  ‘Last night while you were asleep he went on the rampage. Hardly a chienne escaped his attentions. I hesitate to bandy numbers about, but it must reach double figures at the final count. I am not saying that in the final analysis all were unwilling, but as far as I can make out they were hardly given the choice.’