Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  As he did so he caught sight of his white stick and dark glasses and was reminded once again that he had a role to play. Already he had unforgivably let it slip, first with the chauffeur, and then nearly with Doctor Furze. It wouldn’t do to let it happen again.

  Having pressed the button he was immediately struck by the fact that service in the Château Morgue appeared to be on a par with its other facilities. He’d barely had time to write a few brief words to Doucette on a postcard he’d found amongst some other stationery – it showed a picture of Château Morgue and he marked with a cross what he judged might be his room as he always did – when Pommes Frites paused in his perambulations and pricked up his ears, staring at the same time in the direction of the hall. A moment later he heard the soft whine of a lift coming to rest outside, then the swish of a door opening. Hastily applying the stamp Monsieur Pample­mousse placed the card between the pages of his notebook, slipped the latter into the secret pocket of his right trouser leg, and then sat back, clasping the stick between his knees, hands on top, preparing himself for a discreet knock from without.

  Prepared though he was for some kind of entrance, he hardly expected the onslaught that followed. The door burst open and a positive avalanche of people flowed into his room. First, Doctor Furze, white-faced and agitated, still clutching his clip-board, then two others, a man and a woman whom he barely had time to register before, to his even greater surprise, Ananas swam into view. But it was a very different Ananas to the one he had last seen on Toulouse station. With his jacket torn, tie missing, hair dishevelled, he was clearly in a filthy mood.

  Before the others had time to speak, he pushed his way to the front and glared at Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Enfant de garce! Imposteur! Macquereau! Opportuniste!’

  Clearly he was all set to work his way steadily through the entire dictionary of abuse, but before he could progress beyond the letter ‘O’, help intervened in the shape of Pommes Frites. Normally, despite his size, Pommes Frites was of a gentle disposition. He didn’t often growl. Growls he kept in reserve for special occasions. But when he did give voice to them they were of a kind which in his time had caused many an adversary to stop dead in his tracks lest it be followed by even worse manifestations of his displeasure. They began some­where deep inside his stomach and followed what must have been a tortuous path through his intestines, gathering speed as they passed through various Venturi tubes, growing in volume as they entered and left a variety of echo chambers, before finally emerging between teeth which, when bared as they were now, could well have done service as some kind of industrial shredder.

  The effect was both magical and instantaneous. Ananas stopped dead in his tracks and backed away, seeking protection from the others.

  Doctor Furze spoke first. ‘I’m afraid there has been some confusion,’ he said, consulting his clip-board. ‘A case of mistaken identity.’ He glanced from one to the other. ‘Not unnatural in the circumstances.’ A snort from the direction of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s double made the point that he, for one, did not think it at all natural.

  ‘Pardon.’ There was a flash of gold from a Patek Philippe watch as the third man held out his hand to Ananas. ‘We will rectify matters immediately. I will arrange with your Manager for your luggage to be sent up while Doctor Furze escorts this – other person to his proper quarters.’ He turned to Doctor Furze who was hovering nervously on the sidelines, keeping a respectable distance between himself and Pommes Frites. ‘You have the details?’

  For once Doctor Furze had no need to consult his board. The information was obviously indelibly etched on his memory. ‘Block C, room twenty-two, Herr Schmuck.’

  ‘Good. See that the change is carried out at once.’

  ‘Certainly, Herr Schmuck.’

  While the others were talking Monsieur Pamplemousse caught a brief flicker pass between the woman and Herr Schmuck; a warning, perhaps? It was hard to say. Her eyes were as black as pitch; unnervingly so.

  Herr Schmuck turned and gazed intently at Monsieur Pamplemousse, as if trying to probe behind his dark glasses. Suddenly, his arm jerked up and he clicked his fingers. Monsieur Pamplemousse, who’d been trying to rehearse focusing his gaze somewhere in the direction of infinity, reacted rather more slowly than he might normally have done. But once again he was saved by Pommes Frites, whose second warning growl came sufficiently quickly for it to divert attention away from his reflexive drawing back. To his relief Herr Schmuck seemed satisfied.

  ‘Come, Ananas,’ he said, taking the other’s arm. ‘You must allow us to entertain you until your suite has been made ready.’

  Looking slightly mollified, Ananas gave Monsieur Pample­mousse and Pommes Frites a final glare and then allowed himself to be led away. Madame Schmuck, if it were she, followed on behind without so much as a word or a backward glance. Monsieur Pamplemousse was left with the feeling that if it came to any kind of argument, she would have the final decision. He was also oddly aware of a faint smell of greasepaint.

  ‘If you wish to leave your bag,’ said Doctor Furze, ‘I will have someone attend to it.’

  ‘Thank you, no.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse had no desire to lose sight of his valise, particularly as it contained the case belonging to Le Guide. Even though the latter was securely locked, he didn’t want to run the risk of anyone tampering with it, and the way matters were going anything was possible.

  On the way down in the lift he was tempted to enquire if the menu in C Block was the same as the one he’d just been reading, but he changed his mind. Instead, as they emerged onto another floor, he took a firm grip of Pommes Frites’ harness. He needed all his faculties in order to concentrate on his role.

  ‘You will find the accommodation a little less luxurious,’ said Doctor Furze, as he led the way down a long corridor, bare and featureless, with cream coloured walls and cord carpeting. ‘The suite you have just been in is reserved for the personal guests of Herr Schmuck himself, you understand?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse understood. Ananas was doubt­less at Château Morgue under a reciprocal arrangement. A free holiday in return for a suitable endorsement.

  ‘Your room.’ Doctor Furze stopped outside a door. ‘I trust you will be comfortable.’

  ‘Comfortable!’ As he entered the room, Monsieur Pample­mousse could hardly believe his eyes. ‘Comfortable!’ He was about to hold forth in no uncertain manner, when he realised he was in no position to. But how could the man stand there and utter such falsehoods without even so much as a change of voice? Spartan wasn’t the word. Even Pommes Frites, who was rarely bothered by his surroundings, seemed taken aback. Apart from a single bed and a very small armchair, the only other furnishings were a wooden locker, a chest of drawers, a plain uncovered table, and a wooden bench. Thick pile carpet had been replaced by a piece of coconut matting. Through an open doorway in the far wall he could see a bath and a wash basin, alongside which was a set of scales.

  ‘It feels a little – different,’ he ventured, as he groped his way round the room under the pretence of getting the feel of it. His heart sank. The iron frame of the bedstead felt cold to the touch. ‘Am I right in thinking the heating has been turned off?’

  ‘Oui.’ Doctor Furze made no attempt to enlarge on his reply. Instead, he steered Monsieur Pamplemousse gently but firmly in the direction of the bathroom. ‘While you are in here perhaps you would be good enough to remove your clothing. I will make a note of your weight. We always like to do that on the first evening, then again in the morning. Patients usually notice the difference straight away.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse brightened. Perhaps dinner wouldn’t be long in coming after all. He wished now he’d ordered the cassoulet. It would have been interesting to see how much weight he put on. ‘That reminds me,’ he began, ‘you might like to help me with the menu. It is a little difficult.’

  ‘Of course,’ Doctor Furze picked up Monsieur Pample­mousse’s trousers and hung them on a nearby hook. ‘You will find it easy enough
to remember. Dinner is at eighteen-thirty sharp each evening. I’m afraid you have missed it tonight, but in the circumstances I will see what can be arranged. Normally, for the first five days it is a glass of eau.’

  ‘Eau?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Did you say eau?’

  ‘Eau.’ Doctor Furze helped him onto the scales. ‘Chaude, of course. It comes from our own special spring which rises beneath the cellars.’

  ‘After five days you will be allowed a little fresh lemon juice as a treat.’ He took a closer look at a digital display panel on the scales and gave a grunt of disapproval. ‘We are a little unhappy with our weight, n’est-ce pas?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse drew himself up to his full height. ‘We are very happy with our weight,’ he said firmly. ‘It is what we are most happy with. May I have my trousers back, please?’ He suddenly felt resentful at having to display his failings in a cold bathroom.

  ‘One other thing,’ Doctor Furze glanced up from his board. ‘When you wish to use the bath, please let me know and I will arrange for the issue of a plug. It is not,’ he allowed himself the ghost of a smile, ‘that we are short of them. It is a simple but necessary precaution. One cannot be too careful. Once the treatment begins to take effect, many of our patients find it all too easy to get into a bath, but in their weakened state they occasionally have difficulty in getting out again.

  ‘Sign here, please.’ He pushed a pen into Monsieur Pample­mousse’s hand and guided it towards the clip-board. ‘It is an absolution clause. It is obligatoire!’

  While he was speaking a bleeper sounded. Withdrawing a small receiver from the top pocket of his coat, he listened carefully for a moment, then spoke briefly. ‘Oui. I will come immediately.

  ‘I am afraid I must leave you now. Bonne nuit. Petit déjeuner is at seven a.m. sharp.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at the door as it closed behind the doctor. On the back there was an inscription in four languages, French, German, English and Spanish: NOTHING IN THE WORLD IS FREE – LEAST OF ALL YOUR HEALTH. Underneath was a list of charges for various extra services, of which there appeared to be a great many.

  ‘Petit déjeuner!’ A glass of hot water, no doubt. Followed by another glass for déjeuner. He could picture it all. It wouldn’t even be drinkable. It would be a dirty, filthy, foul-tasting brown liquid. Straight out of the ground and tasting like it. Its diuretic qualities would be lethal. He’d once sampled some at a spa in the Midi and had sworn there and then never to repeat the experience. Even Pommes Frites, who wasn’t above stopping at the nearest puddle when he needed to slake his thirst, had turned up his nose.

  Ever alive to his master’s moods, Pommes Frites lifted up his head and gave vent to a long drawn out howl. It summed up the situation admirably.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave him an approving pat, reflect­ing as he did so that with all the resources of the French language at his disposal he would still have been hard pressed to find words strong enough to describe adequately his feelings; it needed a dog of Pommes Frites’ sensitivity to come up with exactly the right sound.

  For a moment or two he was tempted to go in search of a telephone and call the Director. With luck, he might even be able to persuade Pommes Frites to put on a repeat performance down the mouthpiece.

  He thought better of it. He’d had enough of groping his way around in dark glasses for one day. That apart, if he knew the Director, he would be neither amused nor sympathetic, particularly if he happened to be in the middle of dinner. Dinner! He gave an involuntary groan. Pommes Frites let out another howl in sympathy. There was a protesting knock on the wall from the adjoining room.

  ‘Merde!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse collapsed into the armchair in a state of gloom, memories of the meal he’d so carefully planned all too clear in his mind. His gastric juices went into overtime at the thought of what might have been. His dislike of Ananas grew stronger by the minute. No doubt he was already making up for lost time.

  There was a movement from somewhere nearby as Pommes Frites curled up on the floor in front of him, resting his head lovingly across his master’s feet. Thank heaven for Pommes Frites. Where would he be without him? How good it was to have the company of a good and faithful friend in one’s hour of need.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes while he luxuriated in the warmth which was slowly enveloping his ankles. It was really a question of who cracked first, himself or Pommes Frites. At least he had the advantage of knowing why they were there. Why and for how long they were meant to stay. Pommes Frites had no idea. He wouldn’t take kindly to a glass of water for his petit déjeuner every morning. Had they still been at home they would be going for a stroll by now – taking the air near the vineyard by the rue Saint Vincent; walking off the after effects of one of Doucette’s ragoûts. He could picture it all …

  He sat up with a start. Thoughts of Paris reminded him that with all the things going on that day he had totally forgotten about the letter the Director had given him in his office. He felt inside his jacket. It was still there.

  The envelope, which bore on its flap the familiar logo of Le Guide – two escargots rampant – contained a letter and a second smaller envelope made of curiously flimsy paper. The latter was sealed with red wax, embossed with a symbol which rang a faint bell in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s head. A warning bell? It was hard to say. Certainly there was something about it which left him feeling uneasy. Intrigued, he decided to put it to one side for the moment while he read the Director’s covering note. It was short and to the point.

  ‘My dear Aristide,’ it began. That was a bad sign. Either the Director wanted to curry favour or he had a guilty conscience.

  I trust you will forgive my not being entirely frank with you in my office, but as you will see, there were very good reasons. Walls, Aristide, have ears, and the enclosed is for your eyes only. Even I, Directeur of Le Guide, am not privileged to be apprised of its contents. Therefore, I can only wish you luck in what I assume is yet another of those clandestine “missions” to which you have become so addicted, and for which you have acquired some notoriety. Take care, Aristide. Above all, take care! For once you are on your own. You can expect no help from Headquarters.

  The letter, signed by the Director in his usual indecipherable scrawl, ended with a postscript. ‘Two other things while I write. Please assume that until such time as the order is rescinded, you have carte blanche with your P39s. Also, once you have read and digested the contents of the second envelope, please destroy it immediately. Both letter and envelope are made of best quality rice paper. If necessary they can be consumed with no ill effects.’

  ‘Boiled, fried, or nature?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt distinctly hard done by as he glanced at his surround­ings. How dare the Director say that he had a predilection for ‘missions’ when as far back as he could remember he had always been a victim of outside circumstances. Not a seeker of ‘missions’, but one who had missions thrust upon him whether he liked it or not. The sheer injustice of the remark rankled. As for apologising for lack of frankness in his office, that was the understatement of the year. He picked up the second letter and held it to the light. For two pins he wouldn’t even bother to read it.

  As the last thought entered his mind, a slow smile gradually crept over Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face. Tearing a small piece off one corner of the envelope, he applied it to his tongue and then lay back and closed his eyes again. It would have been a gross exaggeration to say that it had a pleasant taste. Comparison with Tante Marie’s gâteau de riz would have been odious. Indeed, there was hardly any taste at all, more a sensation of blandness. All the same, it would serve them all right if hunger got the better of him and he ate the entire letter then and there, unopened and therefore, ergo, unread. There had been nothing in the accompanying note to say he must read it.

  Dwelling again upon his meeting with the Director, other remarks and phrases came back into his mind; remarks about his weight, slurs cast on his physical
features, scarcely veiled criticisms regarding his expense account. And when all those failed, appeals to his better nature and to his loyalty, neither of which had ever been held in question before.

  With so much on his mind, sleep did not come easily, but gradually Monsieur Pamplemousse began to nod off, and as he did so he relaxed his grip on the letter, allowing it to flutter gently to the floor. It was an act which did not go unremarked by his companion, more especially because it landed fairly and squarely, if lightly, upon his head.

  Nudged into instant wakefulness, Pommes Frites opened one eye and gazed thoughtfully at the offending object. A moment later the sound of steady chewing added itself to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heavy breathing. It was not, in Pommes Frites’ humble opinion, one of the best nor the most sustaining meals he had ever eaten, but beggars can’t be choosers. What was good enough for his master was good enough for him, and if it didn’t exactly fill what was now a gaping void, it did at least bridge a tiny gap or two.

  Hunger is not the best of bed-fellows, and when Monsieur Pamplemousse woke to the sound of coughing, it was also with a sense of remorse. He realised as he sat up with a start that this sprang from a dream he’d been having – and not simply having, but actually enjoying. As he patted Pommes Frites on the back to relieve him of whatever was stuck in his throat, he could hardly look him in the eye. To have dreamed of a large suckling pig resplendent on a silver tray, an apple in its mouth, surrounded by a pile of fried potatoes, was one thing. To have transmogrified that pig into his own, dear friend, was quite another matter. A shameful episode, one he would do his best to forget. Thank heavens he’d woken when he had.