by Michael Bond
‘The other worrying thing about it was the fact that not only had Château Morgue developed into one of the biggest drug centres we’ve encountered for a long time – it was rapidly becoming a major threat to Western security.’
‘What started in a small way – the issuing of invitations to a few close friends – grew out of all proportion. Some very powerful people began using the Château, and not just for drugs either. Other perversions started being catered for. Herr Schmuck learnt his trade after the war when Germany was in ruins and people would do anything to scratch a living.’
‘His wife, Irma, was a more than willing assistant.’
‘The K.G.B. got to hear about it and began making offers to the Schmucks they couldn’t refuse. There were fears of blackmail.’
The Director stirred in his seat. Determined to make his presence felt, he broke into the duologue and took the photographs back. ‘Two things puzzle me, Pamplemousse. The first is, how did you manage to obtain these? I gather they show rooms on the uppermost floor, and yet clearly they were take from outside – through the windows. If you had recourse to the hiring of a helicopter, I fear trouble with Madame Grante. We shall need to prepare the ground carefully before we approach her.’
‘If you will forgive me, Monsieur le Directeur,’ Chambard butted in. ‘There are some matters best left unexplained. I am sure you will understand me if I use the word sécurité. Sécurité Nationale.’
‘As for the cost,’ the senior of the two officials raised a beautifully manicured hand, ‘rest assured it will be taken care of.’
The Director looked suitably impressed. ‘Of course. I understand. However, that leads me to the second matter.’ As he spoke he swivelled his chair so that it faced towards the other end of the room.
Monsieur Pamplemousse followed suit and as he did so his gaze alighted first on the model of the Ideal Inspector, clean-shaven, not a hair on his head out of place, immaculately knotted tie. He gave a start as his eyes travelled downwards. Sitting on a large sheet of brown paper, mud-stained and somewhat the worse for wear, rather like a captured enemy tank, stood an all too familiar object. It was held down by some large iron stage weights.
Pommes Frites saw it too. He bounded across the room, went round it several times, nearly knocking Alphonse over in the process, before finally giving vent to a loud howl as he settled down in bewilderment in order to consider the problem.
Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. ‘It is a difficult matter to explain, Monsieur. That is, or rather was, Pommes Frites’ kennel –’
‘I know it is Pommes Frites’ kennel, Pamplemousse.’ The Director assumed his Patience Personified voice. ‘The question is, why is the entrance sealed, and why does it have a quantity of ladies’ lingerie glued to the outside? Black lingerie. If it is like that on the outside, heaven alone knows what it is like within. The whole thing is totally beyond my comprehension.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to say that quite possibly the Director might find the remains of some charcuterie, but before he had a chance to speak Inspector Chambard took over again.
‘We think we know who is responsible, Monsieur. It is the work of a certain person in the entertainment world who bears, if I may say so,’ he inclined his head towards Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘a striking physical resemblance to a member of your staff. He is a person of somewhat bizarre tastes and as such he is not welcome in our part of the world. He was last seen by one of the attendants at Château Morgue carrying that object into the bushes on the night of the raid. On that evidence alone we cannot prosecute. Nevertheless, it is not something he would wish to have made public. He has been told in no uncertain terms that should he ever show his face anywhere near Narbonne again we shall jeter le livre at him.’
The Director gazed with distaste at the object under discussion. He gave a sigh. ‘We live in a sordid world. I sometimes wonder if there is any limit to Man’s depravity. I wouldn’t have your job for all the thé de la Chine, Chambard. What on earth would anyone want with an inflatable dog kennel to which items of ladies’ underwear have been glued? What would they do with it?’
Inspector Chambard gave a shrug which said it all. He turned to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘With your permission, Monsieur, we would like to put it on permanent display in the Musée des Collections Historiques de la Préfecture de Police – in the Déviations Sexuelles division. Naturally we would pay for the cost of a replacement.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had been about to protest, but he rapidly changed his mind. Restoring the kennel to its normally pristine condition would not be easy. He’d had to make a slit in the outer inflation tube in order to fill the inside with gas; traces of lingerie might be left. Besides, it would be nice to think of Pommes Frites having a place in the Hall of Fame. He might even take him to see it one day. All that apart, he’d caught Chambard’s wink.
‘Good. That’s settled then.’ The senior of the two men from the Ministry stood and drained his glass. His companion followed suit.
‘You have rendered an incalculable service to your country, Monsieur Pamplemousse. Not just in the matter of drugs, which is a constant and never-ending battle – as fast as one hole is plugged another opens up – but in an area which affects us all: the security of the western world. There will be a decoration, of course.’
‘In the fullness of time. It wouldn’t do to arouse too much interest for the time being.’
‘Pommes Frites, too. We understand it was he who located the charcuterie.’
At the mention of his name, coupled with the evocative word ‘charcuterie’, Pommes Frites pricked up his ears. As far as he was concerned there had been a great deal of talk and very little action. He was also getting hungry. Perhaps things were about to take a turn for the better.
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. Doucette would be pleased, but deep down he knew he couldn’t possibly accept. It was easier for him; he could evaluate the risks involved. Pommes Frites, on the other hand, did things out of love and a generosity of spirit, a simple desire to please his master. He was happy to be rewarded with a kind word and a pat at the end of it all.
‘What I did was nothing. At one time it would have been part of my job. However, a mention for Pommes Frites would be nice. Something small he can hang on his collar. I’m sure he would appreciate it.’
Behind his back the Director raised his shoulders in a shrug which was part exasperation, part pride at Monsieur Pamplemousse’s reaction.
Au revoirs said, the men from the Ministry departed; perhaps they had a matinee performance elsewhere. Inspector Chambard nodded and followed them at a discreet distance.
The Director motioned Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites to remain behind. ‘There is a soupçon of wine left in the bottle. It would be a pity to waste it.’
‘Merci, Monsieur.’ As Monsieur Pamplemousse settled down again he glanced across at Pommes Frites’ kennel and then with some distaste at Alphonse.
The Director read his thoughts. ‘I think Alphonse will be taking an early retirement,’ he said. ‘I have decided that he is, perhaps, a little too perfect for our requirements. To tell you the truth, his smile is beginning to get on my nerves, I have to cover him up from time to time.’
‘Holier than thou?’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Holier than all of us, I fear, Aristide,’ replied the Director. ‘I think it is high time he went back to the shop window whence he came. He will be just in time for the spring sales. He has served his purpose and it seemed a good ploy at the time.
‘As you will have gathered from the letter, I was under some compulsion from the powers that be to send you to Château Morgue. It came about as the result of a chance remark at an official function when I happened to talk of our plans.
‘Tell me, Aristide,’ the Director dropped his voice. ‘These things intrigue me, it is such a different world from the one I am used to. The letter … Did you … did you eat it?’
Monsieur Pa
mplemousse lowered his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to tell a direct lie.
The Director followed his glance and light dawned. ‘Pommes Frites again! I should have known. Some kind of emergency, no doubt. I will not embarrass you by probing too deeply.’
Draining his glass, he crossed to the cupboard and closed both doors with an air of finality. ‘Ah, Pamplemousse, I do envy you at times – you people in the field. You lead exciting lives.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took his cue. The interview was at an end.
‘No doubt you will be taking Madame Pamplemousse out for a surprise dîner tonight. Where is it to be, Robuchon, Taillevant? Let my secretary know and I will have reservations made.’
‘It is kind of you, Monsieur, but I think we shall be eating chez nous.’ Doucette would be highly suspicious if he took her to either of the places the Director had mentioned. They were reserved for very special occasions. She would think he was suffering from a guilt complex and suspect the worst.
‘I understand.’ As he opened the door the Director assumed his man-of-the-world voice for the benefit of anyone who happened to be listening. ‘We will save it for another time.’
As Monsieur Pamplemousse left the Director’s office and made his way down the corridor, he had an odd feeling in the back of his mind that something was missing; some piece of the jig-saw was still not yet in place. Turning a corner, he found Inspector Chambard waiting for him. They shook hands briefly and fell into step.
‘Déjeuner?’ Chambard eyed him hopefully. ‘Have it on me. I am not often in Paris.’
‘Why not? We can take a stroll towards the fourteenth. There is a little bistro I know. On Tuesdays they have cotriade – we can share one if you like.’ The Malvoisie had sharpened his appetite for seafood. They could help it on its way with a bottle of Muscadet. Who was it who said the good Lord decreed that there should be fine wine made at the mouth of the Loire to go with the fruits de mer?
‘The Muscadet they serve is one of the few still made sur lie – without racking. It is full of character.’
Pommes Frites knew the bistro too. He was well known there and often got invited round the back. His pace quickened as he picked up the scent. It was nice to be back in the old routine.
While they were waiting for someone to come and take their order, Inspector Chambard took out his notebook and flipped open the cover. He turned a few pages.
‘I hope you will not mind my asking this. You do not have to answer, of course. It is, as it were, a matter between friends. However, I, too, have to write out a report and there are one or two loose ends. You understand?’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I am afraid I do not have your imagination. I have to discover the exact truth.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. He understood. Once a policeman, always a policeman. He wished Chambard would get on with it.
‘Firstly, when our man met you in Narbonne you did not respond to the prearranged code message. I assume you had a good reason?’
‘Ah, the prearranged code message.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself playing for time again.
‘Our man said “All is for the best”, and you were meant to say “in the best of possible worlds”. It is from Voltaire.’
‘One cannot be too careful.’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, I am used to working alone.’
Inspector Chambard looked hurt. ‘Our man thought you must be Ananas after all. We’d had word that he was on the same train. I’m afraid he must have given you a rough ride. He does not consider himself one of Ananas’ greatest fans.’
‘He is not alone in that.’
The point was taken. ‘I sympathise. But I think you will be rid of the problem for a while. If our friend knows what is good for him he will be keeping a low profile. To do him justice I don’t think he realised what he was letting himself in for. A weak man himself, he was attracted by those of like mind. Such people have extrasensory perception.’ There was a pause.
‘One other thing. Tell me, was it you with the English Madame the other evening?’
‘We had dinner in the village.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what was coming now.
‘And do I have your word that it was not you who was responsible for the robbery in the ladies’ changing rooms?’
‘You do.’
Inspector Chambard looked relieved. He methodically drew some lines across the page, then snapped the book shut, replacing a rubber band which held the covers together.
‘You’d be surprised at the things that go on at a health farm. Cut people off from their food and they get desperate. I have over forty pairs of culottes unaccounted for. I can’t tell you what a headache that is. The only ones we have retrieved so far are those on Pommes Frites’ kennel. But we will find them. Never fear. We will find them.’
But Monsieur Pamplemousse was hardly listening. ‘Pardon.’ He rose from the table. ‘I have an urgent telephone call to make.’
How long had he been in Paris? Three days? He wondered if he had left it too late. His room might have been searched. Worse still, Mrs. Cosgrove could have already gone back to England. As the ringing tone started he found himself crossing his fingers.
‘Château Morgue?’ At least the switchboard was still operating. ‘Madame Cosgrove, s’il vous plaît.’
‘Oui, Monsieur.’
He breathed a sigh of relief. She must still be there. Conscious of a couple at a nearby table half listening to his conversation, he turned his back. In a mirror behind the bar he could see a reflection of the kitchen. Pommes Frites was busy with a bowl.
‘Anne!’
‘Oui, I am well, thank you.’ He felt excited at hearing her voice again. ‘I am sorry … I wanted to telephone, but … I wasn’t sure if you would still be there.’ It sounded a feeble excuse.
‘Tomorrow? I hope you have a good journey.’
‘He’s got off? You must be relieved –’
‘I hope so too.’
‘Listen … before you go, can you do me a favour? Under my bed you will find a parcel. Could you post it for me?’
‘No, not to me, for me.’ That would be a disaster – if a parcel of assorted lingerie arrived while he was away and Doucette opened it by mistake, he would never hear the last of it.
‘What address?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Address it to Madame Grante, care of Le Guide.’ That would give her something to think about. He fed another coin into the slot. ‘I have only a little time left.’ One franc’s worth to be precise and there were so many things he wanted to say.
‘Who knows? One day, perhaps?’
‘Oui, it is a small world. Listen … thank you again, et bonne chance. George too.’
There was a click and she was gone. The P.T.T. didn’t even leave time for an au revoir.
He arrived back at the table at the same time as the tureen of cotriade. Alongside it was a bowl of the traditional heart-shaped croûtes. He wondered if he could distract Chambard’s attention long enough to filch one. It would be a reminder of his times with Mrs. Cosgrove.
He glanced out of the window. ‘It looks as if we may have snow.’ It was true. There was a bitterly cold wind blowing from the north. People were hurrying by with their coat collars turned up.
He quickly transferred one of the croûtes onto his chair seat, holding it in place with his leg.
But his satisfaction was short-lived. As Inspector Chambard turned back he felt something push against him. Almost immediately there was a loud crunching noise from underneath the table.
Pommes Frites looked up at him gratefully. It was good to be back and to have such a thoughtful master, ever sensitive to his needs. The bowl of navarin d’agneau the chef had given him had been nice, but it tasted even better when it was followed by a piece of fried bread which had been well rubbed with garlic.
Life, in Pommes Frites’ humble opinion, had few better things to offer. And even though he could see that for some reason best known to himself, Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t entirely
share his view, instinct told him that it was only a matter of time before he would.
ALSO AVAILABLE BY MICHAEL BOND
Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation
Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web
About the Author
MICHAEL BOND was born in Newbury, Berkshire in 1926 and started writing whilst serving in the army during the Second World War. In 1958 the first book featuring his most famous creation, Paddington Bear, was published and many stories of his adventures followed. In 1983 he turned his hand to adult fiction and the detective cum gastronome par excellence Monsieur Pamplemousse was born.
Michael Bond was awarded the OBE in 1997 and in 2007 was made an Honorary Doctor of Letters by Reading University. He is married, with two grown-up children, and lives in London.
By Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Secret Mission
Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot
Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure
Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft
Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates
Monsieur Pamplemousse Rests His Case
Monsieur Pamplemousse Stands Firm
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Location
Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train
Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation