by Michael Bond
With no thought of time or of Pommes Frites, he worked solidly for the best part of an hour, then he laid down his pen and sat for a while, driven to one inescapable conclusion. Whichever way he looked at it, from whatever direction he approached the problem, in order to prove his theory he needed evidence of what went on inside the Tower Block. He rose and crossed to the window, gazing out at the surrounding countryside, going over in his mind once again all that had taken place since his arrival at Château Morgue. And as had so often happened in the past when, under similar circumstances, he’d sought inspiration from the waters of the Seine via his office window in the quai des Orfèvres, the very act of stretching his legs and filling his mind with an entirely different view, produced almost immediate results.
By standing on tiptoe he could just see the village where he had spent the previous evening with Mrs. Cosgrove; by standing on a chair he could even see the aire de pique-nique, and it was while he was idly wondering what had happened to Pommes Frites’ balloon, whether it was somewhere inland, or perhaps even heading towards the Mediterranean, that an idea came to him.
He stood on the chair for a moment or two, lost in thought. It would require equipment he didn’t possess, equipment he probably couldn’t easily get hold of at short notice. Unless … In a flash, one idea triggered off another. He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. Jumping down off the chair he made for the bathroom, and, watched by Pommes Frites, set to work.
At ten thirteen, unable to stand things a moment longer, Pommes Frites made it very clear that he wished to be elsewhere. He left the room with a worried look on his face and set off down the corridor, determined to brook no interference with his plans.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t the only one to have spent his morning engaged in thought. Pommes Frites had also been exercising his grey matter, and after weighing up all the pros and cons, making all due allowances for possible errors of judgement, it was his considered opinion that his master was suffering some kind of brainstorm and that there wasn’t a moment to be lost.
The signs were all there. First, there had been the business with the white stick and dark glasses; then the sudden change of eating habits – from meals of infinite variety to a diet of unrelieved sausages. The acquisition of a bicycle was yet another bad sign; Pommes Frites didn’t agree with bicycles – they came at you from all angles. As for the balloon, the less said the better. The fact that his master was now playing around with his kennel was the final straw. It suggested that action of an immediate and fundamental nature was required.
No less adept, although perhaps a trifle slower than his master at sifting information, it had taken Pommes Frites some while to arrive at the truth of the matter. Now that he had, he couldn’t understand why it hadn’t occurred to him before. The whole thing was his fault entirely. His master was in need of care and attention and in his hour of need he, Pommes Frites, had been responsible, albeit unwittingly, for giving away something which he obviously held in great store. It was as if, and he couldn’t think of a better parallel, it was as if someone had stumbled across a store of his best bones and had given them to another dog without so much as a by-your-leave.
Pommes Frites was never one for doing things by halves. Once he had things clearly worked out in his mind, that was that – there was no stopping him. And had he been able to see his master at that moment, he would undoubtedly have quickened his pace towards his final goal, for his worst fears would have been realised.
Monsieur Pamplemousse, with the aid of a puncture repair kit normally housed in a pocket at the rear of Pommes Frites’ kennel, was busily engaged in gluing down the flap over the entrance, and in so doing, effectively barring the way at one and the same time to both anyone who might seek entry and anything within hoping to escape, including, he was pleased to see as he applied his full weight to the top and bounced up and down several times, the air inside.
Pommes Frites would not have been alone in registering concern had there been others present to witness the operation, but Monsieur Pamplemousse himself seemed more than pleased as he gazed at the result of his labours; so much so it was some little while before he registered the fact that the telephone was ringing.
‘Aristide.’ It was Mrs. Cosgrove.
‘Anne. How are you?’
‘I feel awful.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his forehead. ‘I am not … how would you say? One hundred per cent, but –’
‘I don’t mean that. I mean the whole thing. It’s never happened to me before. I’m fine otherwise.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to try again, rephrasing his original question. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m still at the Police Station. Some Inspector or other has been questioning me. He says he knows you.’
‘Chambard?’
‘That’s the one. He thought you were with me last night. Apparently the woman in the restaurant gave him a description. I didn’t let on. I said I was with your look-alike. The one who came to your room that night.’
‘Ananas?’ He felt his forehead again. The dizziness had returned. ‘Ananas!’
‘I don’t think he quite believed me at first because of your white stick. Anyway, he does now. I didn’t want to get you involved in case you wanted to keep a low profile.’
‘It is very kind of you.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. For some totally illogical reason he felt slightly put out that his place had been taken, if only on paper as it were, by someone he disliked so much.
‘You don’t mind?’ She sounded anxious.
‘Of course not. I am a little jealous, that is all.’
‘Oh dear. I’m sorry about that. Never mind. We’ll try and make up for it later. I’ll tell you something else –’
‘Listen, before you do …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse cut across whatever Mrs. Cosgrove had been about to say. Her telephone call was opportune. An omen, perhaps, that what he was planning was meant. He wondered if their conversation was being overheard, and then decided to take the risk. It was too good a chance to miss. ‘On your way back you can do some shopping for me. I would like you to stop off in the village and go, first of all, to the souvenir shop, the one where you bought the balloon. Then I would like you to go to the pharmacie. I think you will find the owner is a keen photographer. I need a number of things. I saw most of them in the window last night. You had better make a list.’
While he was talking, Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself marvelling at the wonders of the human brain, able to register and retain even the most trivial details without being prompted, and all at a time when it must have been heavily engaged in supplying information to that section which was making sure he remained safely upright on his bicycle. He could still picture the window display in the pharmacie with the utmost clarity.
‘Have you got all that?’
‘I think so. Would you like me to read it back?’
‘Not if you are sure.’ At this stage he did not wish to arouse Chambard’s interest in his activities any more than it was already. For the time being at least, he would rather work on his own. Just himself and Pommes Frites … and Mrs. Cosgrove. Chambard was a good man, but he would be bound to ask questions. If his own theories proved correct there would soon be plenty of need for his services.
‘Before you go, I must tell you. There have been some more goings-on at the Château.’
‘Goings-on?’
‘Someone’s been through the ladies’ changing rooms like a dose of salts.’ Mrs. Cosgrove’s voice became muffled as she put a hand over her mouth, covering up a half-suppressed giggle. ‘Apparently they all came back from their morning saunas and needle baths and found their most precious items of underwear missing. There’s hell to pay. Inspector Chambard’s on the ’phone about it right now. That’s how I could ring you. He thinks it must be the same person who stole the package a couple of days ago. He says –’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch again. Much as he liked the sound of Mrs
. Cosgrove’s voice, it was ten forty-three and time was precious. He had a great deal to do.
‘I can tell you one thing, and I will stake my reputation on it. Whoever was responsible for taking the charcuterie is in no way involved in the present matter.’ He was about to add ‘and you can tell Inspector Chambard that from me!’, but thought better of it. Conscious that he might have sounded a trifle pompous, he ended on a fonder note.
‘Take care. I hope I will see you soon.’
At ten forty-five, just as he was in the act of laying out his camera equipment on the bed for checking, there was a loud thump on the door. He opened it and Pommes Frites staggered in. At least, he assumed it was Pommes Frites; it was hard to tell beneath the vast mound of multi-coloured material he was holding in his mouth.
With all the aplomb of an elderly magician whose pièce de résistance, the trick he keeps for really special occasions – that of the disappearing culottes of all nations – has gone sadly awry, he came to a halt in the middle of the room and disgorged his load over the rug.
Suffering a feeling of déjà vu, Monsieur Pamplemousse shot a quick look up and down the corridor. Somewhere in the distance an alarm bell was ringing, but otherwise all was quiet. He closed the door and gazed unhappily at the pile of lingerie. Although black undoubtedly held pride of place, with white a close second, culottes of red, green, purple, and blue, all the many colours of the rainbow, manifested themselves in a variety of shapes, sizes and degrees of laciness. At a cursory glance, if sheer weight of numbers was any criterion, Pommes Frites’ latest excursion into the world of fashion had been even more successful than his earlier venture into the more mundane realms of charcuterie.
Well pleased with his morning’s work, Pommes Frites stretched, and wagged his tail in anticipation of the words of praise to come. Although his master seemed temporarily bereft of speech, he was prepared to wait, happy in the knowledge that he had done the right thing at last. It had just been a simple case of good intentions gone wrong. Mrs. Cosgrove had removed an article of clothing, intending it as a gift for Monsieur Pamplemousse, and he, Pommes Frites, had presented it to another. No wonder his master had been upset; small wonder, too, that he now looked so bowled over at his good fortune – it called for some more tail-wagging.
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared back at Pommes Frites through eyes glazed not by tears, but with sheer incredulity. He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘bon garçon’; his lips refused to form the words. On the other hand, he couldn’t in fairness chastise him either. There was also the fact that he would need Pommes Frites’ co-operation later that day and he couldn’t afford to let any other misunderstandings come between them.
Slowly and deliberately he knelt down and began folding the garments into a neat pile. Compressing them as tightly as possible, he opened the cupboard, emptied the remains of the sausages from their wrapping paper, and used it to make a new parcel which he then pushed under the bed.
It represented yet another very good reason why he would need to work quickly. It was more than likely that Inspector Chambard would seize the opportunity to pay a return visit to Château Morgue. He was not one to be baulked. No stone would be left unturned in his search for the culprit; probably no culottes either if Paradou had any say in the matter. The prospect of being confronted by innumerable irate ladies seeking to identify their nether garments was not a happy one. Even worse, he would be hard put to it to avoid a second request from the Inspector to accompany him back to the station.
He looked out of the window to see if there was any sign of Mrs. Cosgrove returning and was just in time to see the Mercedes in which he’d arrived enter the gates. It was being towed by a breakdown lorry driven by a mechanic in blue overalls. There was no sign of the original chauffeur. The car appeared to have been in the wars since he’d last seen it. The windscreen was smashed, the front bumper twisted, and there was a sizeable dent in the radiator.
The morning was clear and sunny, and he was about to open the window to let in some fresh air when his attention was caught by the pole over the main entrance. For the second time since his arrival the flag was flying at half mast, Had his determination that it was time for action shown any signs of wavering, this was enough to give it a boost; as it was, it simply strengthened his resolve.
First there was the camera equipment to check. On his way back to the bed he closed the bathroom door. For the moment at least, he would rather Pommes Frites didn’t see his kennel.
Opening up the case belonging to Le Guide, he lifted out the tray containing the camera equipment. Removing the Leica R4 body, the standard fifty millimetre Summicron lens and the motor winder, he began to assemble them. The motor winder responded immediately when he tested it. Loading the camera with Ilford XP1 black and white film, he set the programme for shutter priority at a speed of one two hundred and fiftieth of a second, and focused the lens at around ten metres. The combination of a lens aperture of f2 and a film speed of four hundred ASA should be sufficient to cover any eventuality. If not, Trigaux back at headquarters would have means of pushing the film beyond its normal rating.
Opening up his own case, he looked for the Remote Control Unit. Once again fate seemed to have stepped in to take a hand. It was the first time he had ever had such a thing with him. Luckily he’d taken Rabillier’s advice and included several lengths of extension cable. It would enable him to keep hold of the unit itself and judge to a nicety when to trigger the automatic winder. With a range of anything between one frame every half second and one frame every ten seconds he ought to be able to arrive at a satisfactory optimum rate of exposure.
He would need to reconnoitre the area first and make a rough measurement of the distance along the outside wall of the Tower Block, dividing it by the total number of frames available, to gauge the exposure pattern. Even then it might result in a few blank frames – shots of the wall – but given the total window area he should be all right.
He would probably only have time for one go. There was no sense in pushing his luck, so it would have to be right first time. In the interests of safety, Pommes Frites’ kennel had been made of a bright orange, light-reflecting material and would therefore be plainly visible to anyone who happened to be looking out of the windows. Unless … he had another flash of inspiration. Unless it was covered in something which didn’t reflect the light.
He felt under the bed. Covered with a suitably black, non-reflecting material, it wouldn’t be any problem at all.
Pommes Frites wasn’t normally given to audible expressions of pleasure. He was content to leave such displays of emotion to creatures of a lower order. But anyone who didn’t know him well might have been forgiven had they assumed he was undergoing some strange metamorphosis of a feline and contagious nature as he watched his master undo the parcel. Contagious, because it speedily communicated itself to Monsieur Pamplemousse. Monsieur Pamplemousse was positively purring with delight. Had he been conducting a market survey for a fashion designer who wished to prove that despite all the efforts of his rivals to dictate otherwise, black remained the most popular colour in ladies’ lingerie, he couldn’t have wished for better or more unimpeachable proof. Perhaps it had to do with the environment at Château Morgue. Perhaps many of the clients came there not so much for ‘the cure’ as for less laudable reasons. No matter, the plain fact was that he had more than enough material to cover a dozen kennels. Selecting several items which must have belonged to those who had benefited most from nature’s generosity, and rejecting others that would have barely covered the air valve, Monsieur Pamplemousse made a fresh but smaller parcel of the ones that had failed to meet his requirements, and replaced it under the bed.
‘So it was you after all!’ At the sound of Mrs. Cosgrove’s voice he jumped to his feet, colouring up like a schoolboy caught hiding something untoward beneath his desk lid. He had been concentrating so hard on the task in hand he’d totally failed to hear her enter the room. She looked deflated, like someone whose
last precious illusion had just been shattered.
‘It was true earlier on when I spoke to you on the phone. Now, I am afraid it is no longer so. On the other hand, après la pluie, le beau temps.’ He picked up the nearest garment and ran it through his fingers, ‘Every cloud has a silver lining. They solve a problem.’ To his relief she seemed to accept this without question. It showed on her face.
‘You managed to get all the things I asked for?’
Mrs. Cosgrove felt inside a carrier bag. ‘I have some of them in here, the chemicals, some plaited nylon line. I got extra strong. It has a breaking point of over five kilogrammes. I hope I did the right thing, but not knowing what you wanted it for …’
Briefly and succinctly, Monsieur Pamplemousse ran through his plan. At the same time he made some quick mental calculations. The camera and the lens together weighed something like nine hundred grammes, the winder another four hundred. Filled with gas, the kennel should provide more than enough lift.
‘The rest of the things are in my room. All except the helium cylinder. That weighs a ton and it will need the two of us. I left it in the hire car.’
‘Which is where?’
‘I parked it out of sight. It’s well off the beaten track. I don’t think anyone will find it unless they come across it by accident.’
‘Excellent. I can’t thank you enough.’ Now that things were starting to happen he felt relaxed. His mood communicated itself to Mrs. Cosgrove.