Monsieur Pamplemousse & the Secret Mission (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  He had never made so much pastry in his life before. One thing was certain; it couldn’t be any worse than the stuff they normally served, and it had the merit of making everything easier to organise beforehand.

  The Director’s aunt came back across the square. Above the other sounds could now be heard the bang­ing of drums and the trilling of fifes. Refreshed, the band was tuning up in readiness for its big moment.

  She paused on her way past and put the jug down on his table. ‘There’s a tiny drop left in case you get thirsty.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked her and picked up his camera, checking as he did so that he’d set it to shutter priority and with a speed fast enough to accom­modate the marchers when they appeared. He’d opted for the 45–90 mm Angenieux zoom; a new toy he was trying out on behalf of Le Guide. He ran through it. The colour would be slightly warmer than a normal Leitz optic, but at its widest he was able to get a bit of foreground interest with an overhanging branch framing the top of the tree and tables to either side; at its narrowest it was tight enough to be able to get some reasonable groupings on the band when it arrived.

  He made another quick note. Table three had just taken delivery of an artichoke tart, kidneys and cream and foie de veau; they were looking slightly enviously at the table next to them who were deeply into escargots, ris de veau and hare. He decided to keep an eye on them in case they tried to do a swop. That would not be good for his records.

  He took a quick glance around. Everything seemed to be normal. It was a scene that was probably being repeated all over France wherever the sun was shining. The tables were full; the conversation animated.

  The only abnormal note being struck at that moment, or to be strictly accurate a succession of abnormal notes, came from somewhere beyond the square as the band, having embarked on an arrange­ment for drums and fifes of ‘The Entrance of the Gladiators’, set off on its journey.

  As the sound drew near, Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his camera, zoomed in and focused on a vertical rod supporting a canvas hood on one of the stalls in line with the centre of the square, then zoomed out again in readiness for the big moment.

  He wasn’t a second too soon. Intended to be played as a quick-step, the march was being performed in double quick time. Whether the band was trying to keep up with Miss Sparkling Saumur, or whether Miss Saumur was trying to keep one step ahead of the band, was a moot point, but they entered the square at a pace neither the composer, Julius Fusic, nor the organisers of the Fête had ever anticipated. With a rippling motion not unlike that of a giant tidal wave building up and then pausing before making a final plunge at the end of its travels, they came to a shuffling halt facing the Hôtel du Paradis several bars ahead of the final notes.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse zoomed in on the leader, trying to hold her image steady in the viewfinder as she bobbed up and down, marking time as if treading the very grapes she had been chosen to represent. Merde! It still wasn’t tight enough for what he wanted. Quickly he changed to a narrow angle lens – the one he’d used at Villandry. Fortunately it still had the two-times multi­plier attached. He pulled the jug nearer and rested the camera on top to steady it.

  At nine degrees Miss Sparkling Saumur looked rather frightening. Sparkling was not the word he would have used. Miss Fixed-Intensity would have been more apt. Mouth working, hair billowing out behind her, knuckles white through gripping her baton, she seemed to be in the throes of forces beyond her control. Beads of sweat which had collected on her brow formed a tiny rivulet and ran down her cheek. It clung for a moment to her upper lip, then a tongue, long and red and moist, emerged to lick it away, slowly and deliber­ately performing a full circle as if in anticipation of more to come.

  He started the motor drive. With luck it would make a good cover picture for the magazine; a change from the usual landscape or hotel. If only she would stay still for a second. Pressing the rubber cup against his eye he tried hard to hold focus as she filled the frame, first with the whole of her head, then so close he had to sacrifice the top of her forehead in order to avoid cutting off her chin. Her eyes, blue and shining with a kind of intense inner light, seemed to be staring straight into his. He would get Trigaux in the Art Department to process the film for him. It was the kind of thing he revelled in, squeezing the utmost out of a negative. Now he’d lost the chin. Taking his head away from the viewfinder he suddenly realised to his horror that she was heading straight towards him. Not only that but the rest of the band were following hard on her heels, pushing and shoving, their sheets of music falling un­heeded to the ground. The drums had taken on a strange rhythmic beat, the few fifes left playing had become shriller, more insistent.

  He jumped to his feet and looked around for some­where to go, but the wall behind him was too high, the tree was without any kind of foothold. On either side his way was barred by the other tables and beyond those to his left he was hemmed in by the crowd in the square. Gazing heavenwards in desperation he had a brief glimpse of Pommes Frites standing on the bal­cony, looking down in wonder at the sight below, and then they were on him, shrieking, pulling, grasping, clutching, tearing at his clothes like beings possessed of insatiable thirsts and unquenchable desires of a kind no man had hitherto dared name let alone attempt to gratify.

  Pommes Frites’ eyes grew rounder and rounder as he watched his master disappear down the steps leading to the cellars, lost beneath a heaving mass of arms and brown legs, discarded red and gold uniforms, white knickers, brassières, heaving bosoms and tangled hair. It was a scene of such complexity that had Dante been making preliminary notes for his Inferno he would have undoubtedly put them to one side fearing that the critics of the day might have accused him of being over-fanciful.

  Pommes Frites turned and hurried back into the room. Pausing briefly at the door, he grasped the handle firmly in his mouth and turned his head. A moment later it swung open. It was a trick he’d learned on his induction course with the Paris police; one which had earned him bonus points at the time, and then later that same year applause from the crowd when he’d demonstrated it at the annual police Open Day.

  Over the years he’d had occasion to try it out more than once in the course of duty, but he had a feeling that never before had it been used on a matter of quite such urgency and importance.

  8

  THE DARK AND THE LIGHT

  Doctor Cornot clicked open his pen and began to write. ‘You are a very fortunate man, Monsieur.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse sat up in bed and glared at him. ‘I am not fortunate,’ he bellowed. ‘I am most unfortunate! In the space of three days I have been hit over the head, upended in a Sanisette, and now I have been ravaged by a gang of female musicians. Do you call that fortunate?’

  The Doctor tore a piece of paper from his pad. ‘I suggest you apply this to the affected parts three times a day. The swelling may persist for a while and there is a certain amount of soreness, which is not surprising in the circumstances. But nothing is irreparably damaged. No bones are broken.’

  ‘Bones!’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse bitterly. ‘I should be so lucky!’

  ‘You are not the only one to suffer,’ the doctor continued unsympathetically. ‘I have hardly slept since yesterday. Half the members of the drum and fife band are still under heavy sedation. Madame Lorris, their trainer, is in an intensive care unit at Tours and likely to remain there for some while. I fear for her sanity. She had only just recovered from an unhappy experience earlier in the year when she heard voices uttering threats in the Sanisette. Others – the ones who were unlucky enough to be bringing up the rear and so received the full brunt of Pommes Frites’ rescue bid – will be unable to sit down for a week. As for Miss Sparkling Saumur, there is talk of her being deposed. I do not care for some of these modern expressions, but to say that she got her culottes in a twist would have been all too apt had she still been wearing them …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a shudder and held up his hand. ‘Stop! I do not
wish to be reminded.’

  Doctor Cornot picked up his bag and then paused and gazed at him curiously. ‘In a sense it is none of my business. My business is to attend to the sick and in that respect one may say that since your arrival in this village business has never been better. I turn a blind eye to many things I see in passing. If I didn’t …’ he gave a shrug. ‘But in this instance I must confess to a certain curiosity. What did you give them?’

  ‘I gave them nothing,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly.

  ‘Well, someone did. And whatever it was it had exceptional power. Its effects were fairly instant and long lasting. Poor little Hortense is in a dreadful state. She cannot stop moaning and her mother has had to tie her to the bedstead and lock the door. Admittedly she has always been advanced for her age and has been suffering the consequences of late, but …’

  A thought struck Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Have there been other “happenings” in the past?’

  ‘Not with Hortense. Her problems are more imaginary than practical. She reads too many maga­zines and they put ideas into her head. But there have been rumours of “goings-on” from time to time. Not on such a grand scale as yesterday and none that have involved me directly.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘Stories of people – couples usually – often from outside the area – the locals do not patronise the hotel very much these days, but couples who have come to dine and then, for some reason or other, lost all control of themselves. Sometimes even before they have been able to reach the safety of their cars. There was a case only a few months ago. The police had to be called … buckets of water were thrown in Reception. One of the gendarmes got badly bitten when he tried to sepa­rate them.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse recalled the couple he’d seen the day of his arrival; two who had made the car park. ‘Do you have any theories?’

  Doctor Cornot gave another shrug. ‘Nothing in this world happens without a good reason. From all that I have heard it had nothing to do with alcohol. According to a colleague who attended them they were well below the limit which would have prevented them from driv­ing. They were running a temperature and their pupils were severely dilated, but otherwise there was no trace of their being under the influence of any kind of nar­cotic. In any case, they were not the type; the girl was a perfectly respectable member of society – a librarian. He was a watch repairer from Chartres. Neither had been involved in anything of the kind before. Ergo, they must have been exposed to something abnormal.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to stand up in court and give evidence?’

  ‘Believing something to be true is one thing. Proving it is quite another matter. To answer your question – no. Anyway, in your case it will not be necessary. After all, you were the one who was attacked.’

  ‘I am really asking on behalf of a friend. A friend who also had a strange experience after dining here. His case comes up soon.’

  ‘In that case, Monsieur, I would look back into history. I would visit the offices of the local newspapers and go through their files for the turn of the century. Consult records. Search for previous happenings. Dig out all the evidence I could find. Then I would advise your friend to get himself a good lawyer.’

  ‘You are saying?’

  ‘I am saying that this hotel has a curious history. My father, whose practice I inherited, used to relate stories of similar occurrences. They had been told to him by his father before him. There was a time when the Hôtel du Paradis enjoyed quite a reputation in these parts. That is how it got its name. Once upon a time it was simply called the Hôtel du Centre. Then, on the death of Madame Louise’s grandfather it all stopped; as sud­denly as it had begun. It is only recently – within the past few months – that it has started again.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse lay back and closed his eyes, mentally picturing a photograph on the stairs which showed Tante Louise’s grandfather clutching a bottle of claret as he stood with one foot on a rhinoceros carcass. He had a roguish twinkle in his eye and a satisfied air. Come to think of it in most of the pictures there had been one or two native girls hovering in the background. Naked, nubile and with an undeniably contented expression on their faces. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that on one of his many expeditions to Africa he had stumbled across some secret formula, some witchdoctor’s brew, that he’d managed to keep to himself. No wonder he kept making return trips.

  ‘Supposing,’ he began, ‘supposing there does exist some thing or some combination of things, that triggers off this behaviour? A catalyst of great power and inten­sity. And suppose someone were to discover the secret, what then?’

  ‘I would say that someone would need to tread very carefully,’ said the doctor, ‘for he would be in posses­sion of knowledge which many men would stop at nothing to own. Such knowledge in the wrong hands could be an easy source of great wealth and power. It is the kind of knowledge men have been seeking all through history. On the surface the begetter of much pleasure, but in practice, as you know only too well, also the cause of much pain, discomfort and misery.

  ‘It did not escape my notice, Monsieur, that just now when you listed your current misfortunes you mentioned that you were hit on the head the night you arrived. It did not surprise me unduly, for the wound was not really consistent with your story of having tripped and fallen over. Nor did you seem over-anxious to report the matter to the police. In passing I asked myself why. Since we live in an area where such attacks are rare, and since robbery was not the motive, the only reason I could think of was that you had acci­dentally stumbled on something you shouldn’t have and that someone was saying very forcibly “Keep off! Do not interfere in matters which are not your concern.”’

  At that moment the telephone by the side of the bed rang shrilly. Monsieur Pamplemousse lifted the receiver. ‘Un moment.’ He held his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Thank you, Docteur. You have given me much food for thought. If I may, I would like to continue this discussion later. It is possible I will have something more tangible to talk about by then.’

  Doctor Cornot nodded. ‘If that is so, then congratu­lations. It will be a pleasure. I will come and see you again tomorrow. In the meantime, au revoir. Fortun­ately this time you will have to stay in your room otherwise I would add “take care”.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse digested the last remark without fully understanding it and then, as the door closed, put the receiver to his ear again. It was Tante Louise.

  ‘There is a long distance call for you. I said you were not to be disturbed but whoever it is insists on speaking to you. I’m afraid it is a bad line. It is hard to understand what he is saying. Would you like me to ask him to call again later?’

  ‘Non. Merci.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse winced as he reached behind to plump up his pillow and make him­self more comfortable. It felt as though every bone and muscle in his body was aching. As soon as he was through with his caller he would ring down and ask someone to take his prescription round to the pharmacie for him.

  Pommes Frites stirred and looked at him sympa­thetically over the end of the bed. It was an ‘I know exactly how you must be feeling, we’re all boys together’ look. Had the giving of winks been part of his repertoire of tricks, Pommes Frites would un­doubtedly have given his master an extra large one at that moment. Not that Monsieur Pamplemousse was in a particularly receptive mood for such pleasantries. Breathing heavily, he glared at the end of the receiver.

  ‘Who is that?

  ‘Pardon?’ he repeated. ‘I cannot understand a word you are saying.’

  Banging the earpiece with his free hand, he tried again. ‘Monsieur, I do not know who you are or what you want of me, but I have enough things on my mind at present without having to deal with illiterate idiots. You sound as though you have a handkerchief stuffed down your mouthpiece. If you cannot talk to me properly then …’

  ‘Pamplemousse, I am talking with a handkerchief down my mouthpiece. I am doing so because I do not wish my voice to be
recognised. Now, please let me say what I have to say.’

  ‘Pardon, Monsieur le Directeur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself automatically sitting to atten­tion. ‘Forgive me, I did not realise … you may speak freely. There is no fear of our being overheard.’

  ‘I trust you are right, Pamplemousse. Things are in a sorry state. What was the last thing I said to you?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse racked his brains. He dis­liked conundrums at the best of times, but clearly the Director expected an answer. ‘Au revoir?’ he ventured.

  A noise like an explosion came from the other end.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse tried again. ‘Bonne nuit?’

  ‘No, Pamplemousse.’ The Director appeared to be having trouble in controlling his patience. ‘I was refer­ring to the three A’s: Action, Accord and Anonymat, but above all, and correct me if I am wrong, Pample­mousse, above all we agreed on Anonymat.’

  ‘That is true, Monsieur, but …’

  ‘Since you have been at St. Georges-sur-Lie, Action appears to be negligible, Accord as far as I am concerned is non-existent. As for Anonymat – all France knows of your goings-on. It is headline news. Pommes Frites was on breakfast television this morning.’

  ‘Pommes Frites, Monsieur? But that is not possible. He is here with me now. I could reach out of bed and pat him …’

  ‘Bed!’ thundered the voice at the other end. ‘Bed! Do you realise what time it is?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse groped for his watch. ‘But, Monsieur, I still do not understand …’

  ‘Have you looked outside you hotel recently, Pamplemousse? Your balcon is being watched by millions. Ever since Pommes Frites was seen peering through a gap in them, the colour of your curtains has been discussed and analysed and photographed. I’m told they have achieved the highest ratings since the World Cup. No doubt by courtesy of satellite, Pommes Frites and your curtains were also seen by millions in San Francisco and Peking as well. Do you call that Anonymat?’