Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  Cautiously he reached down below the cloth and as ill luck would have it made contact with a knee which was palpably not his own.

  The sigh of contentment which escaped Mrs. Cosgrove’s lips coincided with the arrival of the escargots. Madame, her lips more tightly compressed than ever, banged the plates down in front of them, punctuating her action with a loud sniff before retiring to her cash desk.

  Feeling aggrieved that his action had been misinterpreted on all fronts, Monsieur Pamplemousse seized the opportunity to withdraw his hand.

  ‘Du pain, s’il vous plaît.’

  There was another bang as the basket of bread landed on their table.

  Mrs. Cosgrove giggled. ‘You’re just like George. He gets put out when things like that happen.’ Her leg stopped swinging and with one swift pincer movement came together with its opposite number to embrace his own right leg in a vice-like grip. Simultaneously, she reached out and clasped his left hand firmly in hers. It was like having dinner with an octopus. ‘George likes his greens too!’

  ‘Greens? Qu’est-ce que ces greens?’

  ‘Oats. You know … dipping his wick.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t know, although he could guess. He wondered what Doucette would say if he arrived home one day and announced that he wanted to plonger his mèche de lampe. He withdrew the thought immediately.

  His thoughts went out instead to the absent George. If Mrs. Cosgrove’s present behaviour was typical of their life together, his free time must be almost entirely taken up with a search for fresh stimulants. Perhaps he wasn’t as old as he looked in the photograph. It really was incroyable the way the English gave strange names to anything that had the faintest whiff of guilt about it. They seemed to have invented an entire language to cover every eventuality. It was the same with food. They didn’t eat, they ‘noshed’, ‘scoffed’, or had ‘bites’ to satisfy the ‘inner man’ or because they felt ‘peckish’, and they followed the main course with large helpings of ‘pud’ which they called ‘afters’.

  Perhaps it had to do with being separated from their parents at an early age and the segregation of the sexes. He’d read that it still went on.

  Trying to erase from his mind the vision of a dormitory full of little Mrs. Cosgroves, all sitting on the sides of their beds swinging their legs to and fro in a demonstration of mass frustration, he wiped the earthenware dish clean with a piece of bread and passed it down to Pommes Frites.

  The escargots had been delicious. It was no wonder they were known as ‘the oysters of Burgundy’. Although these, from the vineyards of the Languedoc, were smaller, they were no less good. Catching sight of the patron watching him through the serving hatch, he gave the universal, rounded forefinger-to-thumb sign of approval and received a smile in return.

  Over the main course he decided to bring the conversation round to more important matters. ‘So what else can you tell me about Château Morgue? How about the Schmucks?’

  ‘Herr Schmuck comes from Leipzig and is a bit of a mystery. He started out as an industrial chemist, but the middle part of his life is a bit of an enigma. According to the locals he just seemed to materialise one day. Where his wife comes from no one seems to know. She keeps herself very much to herself. I’ve got a theory she’s escaping from something in her past. She goes on a lot of trips, but always by herself.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at her curiously as he poured the wine, ‘How do you know all these things?’

  ‘People unburden themselves when they’re having a mani­cure. You’d be surprised. They talk about the most amazing things. It’s a bit like being on a pyschiatrist’s couch without the guilt feelings afterwards.’

  ‘And Doctor Furze?’

  ‘He was born in Leipzig too, but he escaped from East Germany just after the war. He’s no more a doctor than I am. At least, not a doctor of medicine, which is what he would like everyone to believe.’

  Feeling a nudge from below, Monsieur Pamplemousse speared a generous portion of Tranche de Mouton and passed it down. Since they would both be smelling of garlic that night there was no point in being parsimonious. All the same, he made a mental note to leave the bedroom window open.

  The Côtes de Roussillon was young and fruity, not unlike a Châteauneuf du Pape, but softer and more rounded. Casanova might not have ascribed to it quite the same powers as a Chambertin, but it showed up well against the Roquefort. And Mrs. Cosgrove too. Her eyes seemed to have acquired an added sparkle.

  His brief exchange with the patron brought its benefit. With a Crème d’Homère – the local version of crème caramel, but made with the addition of wine and honey, there came a glass of Muscat from Frontignan, with the compliments of the chef. Golden and honey-scented like the dessert, it made a perfect ending to the meal.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a great sense of well-being. A well-being threatened only by a faint but persistent unease in the middle of his chest. It had probably been brought on by over-exercise; it certainly couldn’t have been the food. It confirmed a theory he’d once seen propounded by an English author whose name he couldn’t pronounce, that the body was filled with numerous tiny compartments full of poisonous liquids, all of which lived perfectly happily alongside each other provided they were left in peace. But if you disturbed them by running, jumping, jogging or other unnatural pur­suits, then you did so at your peril. Once the fluids were mixed together the result could be fatal.

  ‘Is anything the matter, Aristide?’ Mrs. Cosgrove reached for his hand again. ‘Are you sure you are all right?’

  He returned the squeeze while massaging his chest in a circular movement with his other hand. ‘It will pass. A slight rebellion within, that is all. I should have taken some fresh carrot juice before we came out.’ Carrot juice ought to have been practically on tap in an establishment like Château Morgue.

  ‘I have a bottle of something back in my room,’ said Mrs. Cosgrove. ‘It is made by some monks in the Rhône Valley and it’s supposed to be good for the digestion.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse declined the offer. Without wishing to appear ungrateful, he had a feeling that what was good for a monk’s digestion would probably have little effect on his own after all they had eaten. In his experience monasteries were usually run on strictly business lines by Abbots with clip-boards. Miracles were not on sale to the general public.

  ‘Perhaps a little digestif?’ he added, leaving his options open. Mrs. Cosgrove brightened.

  Reminding the Madame of a doggy-bag he’d ordered for Pommes Frites when they first arrived, he asked at the same time for the bill, only too well aware of the fact that food was not the only problem. It had been a mistake to order a second bottle of the Côtes de Roussillon.

  The bill paid, he rose from the table, adjusted his dark glasses, took hold of Pommes Frites’ plastic doggy-bag in the same hand as the white stick, and after a suitable exchange of pleasantries all round, led the way by a roundabout route to the door.

  ‘I feel very wibbly-woo,’ said Mrs. Cosgrove, when they were outside.

  Wibbly-woo was not the word for it. On the other hand it wasn’t a bad description. Better than joie-de-vivre. It even lent itself to variations. Wobbley-wib … libbley loo. He decided to make a note of it. Perhaps the English had a point after all. There was a name for everything. It was even possible to sing it. The sound of wibbley-woo echoing back from the stone buildings had a satisfying ring.

  The doggy-bag safely secured beneath a large clip on the carrier over the rear wheel of his bicycle, Monsieur Pample­mousse removed the balloon from the handlebars and with due solemnity attached it to Pommes Frites’ collar.

  Mounting the machine, even with the aid of the white stick, was something else again. As he picked himself up for the third time he felt rather than saw someone watching him, and turned to see a pair of eyes through a gap in the curtains of the bistro. They were disapproving eyes, eyes which went well with the thinly compressed mouth, as chilly and unsmiling as the ni
ght air. The owner of both was not amused.

  Turning his back on the uninvited audience, he picked up the bicycle and pushed it a little way down the road before making another attempt. This time he was more successful.

  ‘Follow me!’ Mrs. Cosgrove, skirts flying, was already negotiating a corner ahead of him.

  He set off in pursuit. A pharmacie, its windows full of large stone jars and photographic equipment, merged with a boulangerie, and that gave way to a bureau de tabac, which in turn became the souvenir shop where Mrs. Cosgrove had bought the balloon. He wondered if the owners were watching Pommes Frites from their bedroom window.

  Filled with an elation brought on by a heady mixture of wine and cold air, he discovered a new courage. Suddenly, he felt confident enough to sit upright in the saddle, holding on to the handlebars, first with only one hand, then with no hands at all.

  Obeying a sudden impulse, he went round the Mairie a second time. As he shot past the bistro he caught sight of the Madame again and waved his stick at her. His salute was not returned. She was standing beside the cash desk engaged in an earnest conversation on the telephone. He felt her eyes following him.

  Soon he was out of the village and heading back towards Château Morgue. Almost immediately the road began to climb. Flushed with success, he went through all fifteen gears with an aplomb he hadn’t felt in years, and then came to an abrupt halt as he tried for the sixteenth and found it wasn’t there. Looking back over his shoulder he saw to his dis­appointment that despite everything he had barely covered a hundred metres.

  Dismounting, he turned a corner and caught sight of a bicycle lying abandoned at the side of the road near the entrance to the aire de pique-nique. Above the wall, ghostlike and silvery in the moonlight, floated the balloon, and beyond that, stretched out on one of the tables, lay Mrs. Cosgrove. Arms locked behind her head, knees drawn up, hair streaming over the edge, she looked for all the world like a reincarnation of Aphrodite resting while gaining her second wind after her long swim in the Mediterranean.

  As he laid his own bicycle gently alongside the other, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his pulse begin to quicken and a watery sensation in the bottom of his stomach. It was a feeling which, as he bent down to remove his cycle clips, was replaced almost immediately by a sharp, stabbing pain higher up.

  ‘Merde!’ What a moment to get indigestion.

  He was about to straighten up when he heard a long drawn out animal grunt coming from somewhere close at hand. It was a complex, elemental sound, accompanied by a kind of snuffling and with overtones of such ferocity it caused him to think twice about removing his clips and to take a firm grip of his stick instead.

  Pommes Frites had evidently heard it too, for the balloon was bobbing up and down as if caught in a sudden gust of wind, heading first one way and then the other. Monsieur Pample­mousse turned towards a black patch of undergrowth beneath some trees on the other side of the road, wondering if perhaps it was harbouring a wild boar. As he did so the sound came again, this time from behind. He spun round as fast as he could and immediately regretted it. Part of his head felt as if it had gone into orbit. On the other hand, he had identified the source. Unmistakably, the dying notes came from the direc­tion of the table. Mrs. Cosgrove was enjoying a deep if not exactly soundless sleep.

  From somewhere in the distance, further down the hill, there came the roar of engines. By the sound of it two vehicles were approaching fast, their tyres squealing as they took the corners at speed. Monsieur Pamplemousse felt glad he was no longer on his bicycle. The impression that there was more than one vehicle was confirmed a few seconds later as two sets of headlights swung round a bend immediately before the village and then disappeared from view.

  Instinct told him to hide. Calling for Pommes Frites to follow, he made a dive for the cover of an old workman’s hut in the far corner of the picnic area. It was too late to do anything about Mrs. Cosgrove or the bicycles even if he’d wanted to. They weren’t a moment too soon. He’d hardly had time to draw breath, let alone make himself comfortable, before the lights swept past, illuminating as they did so both Mrs. Cosgrove and Pommes Frites’ balloon which had broken free.

  There was a screech of brakes from the leading vehicle, echoed even more urgently by the one behind, then the noise of crunching gears and engines revving as they backed down the hill a little before coming to a stop. Doors slammed as the occupants clambered out. Then came the crunch of feet on gravel, followed by the sound of familiar voices.

  ‘It must be the woman the old girl in the café was talking about on the phone.’ He recognised Paradou’s voice, then that of his colleague as they shone a torch over the recumbent figure on the table. There were a few barely suppressed whistles, then the other gendarme passed a remark which provoked a coarse laugh. It was immediately stifled as another voice cut through the darkness.

  Peering round the side of the hut, Monsieur Pamplemousse saw Inspector Chambard rise into view from behind the bicycles. ‘Can’t you wake her?’

  ‘You try, Chief.’ It was the second gendarme. ‘She’s out like a light.’

  Chambard gave an impatient grunt. He crossed to the parapet and gazed up at the balloon drifting slowly across the valley. ‘What the devil can have happened to Pamplemousse? It must have been him. There can’t be anyone else wandering around with a white stick at this time of night.’

  ‘I wouldn’t fancy his chances if he’s fallen down there.’ Paradou joined the Inspector and waved his torch in a desultory fashion over the side of the wall.

  ‘Zut alors!’ Inspector Chambard turned back to the table and gazed down at Mrs. Cosgrove. ‘We can’t leave her here. She’ll catch her death of cold. You two had better take her back to the station. Put the bicycles in the van too. There’s a bag of something on Pamplemousse’s carrier – you can go through it when you get back, Paradou, and make a list of the contents.’

  Paradou gave Pommes Frites’ doggy-bag a tentative squeeze. ‘Why do I always get the dirty jobs, Chief?’

  But Inspector Chambard was already in his car. The door slammed. A moment later he was on his way. Paradou waited until the car was safely round the corner before giving vent to his feelings.

  ‘You can tell it belongs to old Pamplemousse all right. He must have some kind of kink. Feel it, go on, feel it!’

  Declining the offer, his colleague picked up the other bicycle and propped it up in the back of the van. ‘Did you see the analyst’s report on the first lot? Sixty per cent pure chicken and pork. Fifteen per cent pure onion –’

  ‘Pure! That’s a laugh. Wait till he gets hold of this!’

  The second machine safely stowed away, they turned their attention to Mrs. Cosgrove.

  From his position behind the bush, a position which was growing steadily more uncomfortable with every passing moment, it seemed to Monsieur Pamplemousse that the two gendarmes were making unnecessarily heavy weather of the comparatively simple task of transferring their burden from the table to the front seat of the van.

  The temptation to jump out and remonstrate was almost too great to bear, but discretion won the day. He was in no mood to submit to the kind of tedious explanations which would inevitably follow such an action. Far better let things take their course.

  At last they had finished. As the red tail lights of the van receded down the hill, Monsieur Pamplemousse stood up and mopped his brow with the back of his sleeve. In spite of the cold he was sweating profusely.

  He turned and gazed up the hill towards Château Morgue. The lights from the windows at the top of the tower block made it seem even more remote and impregnable than ever, and he suddenly felt very dispirited. It would need either the services of a helicopter pilot to learn what was going on inside or a bird perched on top of Pommes Frites’ bal­loon.

  Saddle sore, aching in every limb, his gastric juices in revolt, head throbbing, deprived of his sole means of wheeled transport, Monsieur Pamplemousse prepared himself for the long slog back up the hil
l.

  Only one thing remained to render his cup of unhappiness full to overflowing. It concerned Pommes Frites and was a matter which would need to be faced up to in the not too distant future.

  For the moment at least, Pommes Frites had other things on his mind. He was standing with his front paws on the parapet looking for his lost balloon, but when he mentally came back down to earth it would be with a distinct bump. He wouldn’t be best pleased when it dawned on him that along with Mrs. Cosgrove and the bicycles had gone the bag containing his supper. He would feel very hard done by. Melancholy would set in. And when Pommes Frites had a touch of the melancho­lies, everyone else was apt to suffer. It was not a happy prospect.

  ‘Merde!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up his stick and stabbed at a nearby bush. What a way to end an evening which had begun with such promise.

  8

  JOURNEY INTO SPACE

  Contrary to all his expectations, Monsieur Pamplemousse went to sleep that night almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. He woke at eight o’clock the next morning feeling, if not as fresh as the proverbial daisy, at least as a daisy which required the minimum amount of attention in order to greet the new day. After a bath and a shave and a hearty breakfast of Saucisses de Montbéliard, he felt more than ready to start work.

  To say that he spent the intervening time thinking of Mrs. Cosgrove would have been a distortion of the truth. She entered his mind more than once, but only in passing. At least he knew she was in safe hands, and doubtless she would surface again in the fullness of time.

  His mind was full of little notes and observations and thoughts, all of which badly needed putting into some kind of order. In many ways it was the part he liked best, the sifting of all the available information, the analysing, collating and fitting together of all the various items like a jig-saw puzzle, discarding a piece here, adding a piece there, watching the overall picture gradually take shape. There was a precision about the whole activity; the knowledge that an answer must eventually be produced appealed to the mathematical side of his mind. True, in the present case there were a number of bits missing, but he had no doubt in his mind that once he’d got the edge pieces assembled, the framework and parameters within which he had to work established, the rest would follow.