Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft (5 page)

A feeling of excitement came over him and he quickened
his pace. Although they had spoken on the telephone several times – notably when he’d been involved in the case of the missing girls at the finishing school near Evian – it was a long time since they last met. Three years? Four?

He almost broke into a trot as he covered the last few metres, his hand extended.

‘Monsieur Pickering. How good to see you!
Comment ça
va
?’

The figure on the bench glanced up from his
journal,
then looked briefly at his wrist-watch.

‘
C’est
dix-sept plus cinq minutes
.’ It was said in a flat monotone, almost devoid of expression. Having imparted the information, the owner of the voice pointedly returned to his crossword.

‘But …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hardly knew what to say. ‘It
is
Monsieur Pickering,
n’est-ce pas
? Surely you remember me?’

‘Look, piss off, there’s a good chap.’ This time the words came through clenched teeth and were said with such feeling Monsieur Pamplemousse practically reeled back as if he had been hit.

As he made his way slowly back along the promenade he felt totally shattered; rejected on all sides. First there had been the accident with his car, then the girl. Now, Mr. Pickering – someone he had always looked on as a friend – had denied him.

So much for
entente cordiale.
Anything less
cordiale
than Mr. Pickering’s reception would be hard to imagine.

Feeling Pommes Frites nuzzle up against him, he reached down and patted his head. At least, come rain or shine, you knew where you stood with Pommes Frites. His was no fair weather friendship.

He directed his thoughts towards Ty Coz. When they got there they would have a good meal to make up for it. It would be a meal to end all meals; no expense spared. There would be no stinting. Madame Grante would have a fit when she saw
l
’
addition
.
He could picture it all.

But as he crossed the road towards the garage, something else happened which gave him cause for thought. He was not unfamiliar with the workings of
Sanisettes.
Indeed, following his experience in St. Georges-sur-Lie when for a brief period he had been incarcerated in one while inspecting an hotel belonging to the Director’s Aunt Louise, he’d become a walking mine of information on the technicalities of their workings.

Efficient, they might be. A minor miracle of electronics as applied to public facilities, yes. Sanitised, certainly. But fast, no. The cleaning cycle following each operation alone took exactly forty seconds, so there was no question of one out, the next one in.

And therein lay the nub of the matter. His encounter with Mr. Pickering had been brief and to the point; it had certainly taken not longer than a minute or so. And yet he’d been barely halfway across the road when the door to the
Sanisette
slid open and out came a nun. Moreover, she was carrying a small brown valise.

Clearly, the undercurrents in St. Augustin were not restricted to rocking the boats in the port. Some were hard at work on land as well.

Removing a box bearing a large red cross from the leather case provided by
Le Guide
as standard issue to all its Inspectors, Monsieur Pamplemousse opened it and began looking for a tube of antiseptic ointment and a plaster. For the latter he needed one which was both generous in its measurements and in its powers of adhesion, for Pommes Frites’ nose was, to say the least, not only large but usually very wet, and he wouldn’t be at all happy if the plaster fell off into his breakfast. Not that the thought of breakfast at the Ty Coz was uppermost in either of their minds at that moment. If their experience of the previous evening was anything to go by, their fast would best be broken elsewhere.

In designing the original case, which had changed very little in its basic concept over the years, the founder of
Le Guide,
Monsieur Hippolyte Duval – a perfectionist in all that he did – had sought to provide for any emergency likely to be encountered by members of his staff whilst in the field.

Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but reflect as he discarded first one and then another plaster as being either too small or the wrong shape, that Monsieur Duval had probably never envisaged the need to come to the rescue of a bloodhound who had suffered injury to his proboscis from the business end of a ball-point pen, or indeed any sort of pen –
given the fact that the ball-point wasn’t invented until long after the Founder had passed on.

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt terrible. He would far sooner have speared his own nose than wound Pommes Frites’ in the way that he had. Had he been brought up in court by an animal protection society, his excuse would have sounded very lame indeed. His head bowed in shame.

The previous evening had been an unrelieved disaster. The only good thing that had happened was the retrieval of his car, looking none the worse for its adventure. One more tribute to a design which in many respects was hard to fault.

The food in the hotel restaurant had turned out to be unbelievably bad. How the other diners could get through their meal, some with every appearance of enjoyment, was beyond him. Not even several measures of a particularly vicious Calvados had entirely taken away the salty taste. Since the bottle had been without a label he strongly suspected the chef must make it himself during the long winter evenings.

In the end he and Pommes Frites had retired to bed early armed with a large supply of Evian, the seals of the bottles unbroken to make sure the contents hadn’t been tampered with. After a long drive he had hoped they might both get a good night’s sleep. But hunger proved to be a poor bedfellow. Apart from which he had many things on his mind.

Mr. Pickering’s strange behaviour kept him occupied for quite a while; he couldn’t for the life of him think what he might have said or done to cause his old friend to act the way he had. The goings-on in the
Sanisette
were something else again. Coupled with the behaviour of the nuns in the car earlier in the day, he began to wonder whether he wasn’t witnessing the total decline of the Catholic Church; the Pope must be a very worried
homme.
Thinking about the girl who had given him a lift only added to his restlessness – he couldn’t get the sudden change in her behaviour out of his mind; one moment so cool and sure of herself, the next moment clearly afraid. But afraid of what? Magnified as such thoughts always are in the hours of darkness, he began to
wish he’d gone to the circus after all, picturing himself in the role of rescuer from whatever it was that was troubling her.

He tried counting sheep, but that only made matters worse. They all wore frilly white collars, the kind used to decorate roast crown of lamb. He pushed the thought aside.

Last, but not least, there was the task which had brought him to Port St. Augustin in the first place: catering for the inaugural flight of the airship. Switching on the bedside light, he reached for his pen and pad. For one reason and another he hadn’t even begun to think of a possible menu and time wasn’t on his side. Neither as it happened, was inspiration. One thing was certain, he wouldn’t find it by staying at the Ty Coz. Why on earth the Director had insisted on his going there he would never know.

In desperation he sought refuge in a game popularly known to himself and his colleagues on
Le Guide
as ‘The Last Supper’. It was one they played on those occasions when they were able to meet up
en masse
as it were; the annual staff outing at the Director’s weekend retreat in Normandy perhaps, or when things were comparatively slack after the March launch and they were all in the office getting ready for the next edition.

Over the years they had played it so many times the result was a foregone conclusion, but it was no less enjoyable for all that, giving rise to much smacking of lips and to reminiscences which often went on far into the night.

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s own choice on such occasions was clear and uncompromising. Simplicity was the keynote. Truffle soup at Bocuse’s restaurant just outside Lyon. A simple grilled
filet
steak – preferably from a Charolais bull – accompanied by a green salad, at any one of a hundred restaurants he could have named without even stopping to think; followed, if heavenly dispensation made it possible to arrange, by
pommes frites
cooked by the
patron
of a little hillside café he’d once come across on the D942 west of Carpentras; light, crisp, golden, piping hot, and always served as a separate course, for they were perfection in their
own right. The wine would be an Hermitage from Monsieur Chave, and after the cheese – the final choice would depend on the time of the year – a
tarte aux pommes légère,
wafer thin, and topped with equally thin slivers of almond.

His salivary glands working overtime, Monsieur Pamplemousse lay awake for a long time after that. If he were to expire during the night – and the way he felt, such an event was not entirely outside the bounds of possibility – it would not be as a happy man.

And so it came to pass that with food uppermost in his mind, he fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming, perhaps not unsurprisingly in the circumstances, of what might have been.

However, as he settled down to enjoy the meal of his dreams something very strange happened. A ton weight seemed to have settled on his stomach, pinning him to the bed. The more he struggled the harder it became to move, and panic set in.

Then, just as he was about to give up all hope of rescue, a waiter appeared bearing not the expected bowl of soup, but what could only be described as a kit of parts; a platter of pastry, a jug containing chicken stock, and a plate on which reposed a single black truffle – a magnificent specimen to be sure, the biggest he had ever seen – twice the size of a large walnut. Madame Grante would have had a fit if she’d seen it.

He reached forward to pick it up. But the surface was moist and as soon as his fingers made contact it shot out from between them and rolled across the table cloth, hovering for a moment or two before settling down again. He tried a second time then a third, but on each occasion the result was the same. The truffle seemed to have a life of its own.

Stealth was needed. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Monsieur Pamplemousse clasped his pen. Then he made a lightning stab at the object in front of him.

Alonzo T. Cross, inventor of the world’s first propelling pencil – a forerunner of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s present
weapon – would have been well satisfied with the result, for it was a tribute to the sharpness of his products.

Not even a banshee, that spirit of Celtic superstition reputed to howl beneath the window of a house where the occupant is about to die, could have surpassed the cry which rent the air as the finely engineered point of the pen made contact with its target.

Monsieur Pamplemousse woke with a start and found himself lying half on and half off his hotel bed, with Pommes Frites eyeing him dolefully, not to say fearfully, from the other side of the room. He wore an expression, as well he might in the circumstances, of a dog who has just suffered the ultimate betrayal of a love which he had always assumed would last forever. To make matters worse it had happened at the very moment when he’d been in the middle of showing his affection for his master with a morning lick. St. Hubert – the patron saint of bloodhounds – would have been outraged had he been present at the scene.

As Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at the end of his pen and then at Pommes Frites’ nose, he realised for the first time that the latter bore a distinct resemblance to the
Tuber
menosporum
of his dreams and remorse immediately set in. Pommes Frites’ proboscis, once the pride and joy of the
Sûreté,
follower to the bitter end of many a trail, sometime winner of the Pierre Armand trophy for the best sniffer dog of his year, was not something to be trifled with. Its impairment would be almost as hard to bear for those who in one way or another depended on its proper functioning as it would be for Pommes Frites himself. Reports for
Le Guide
would suffer. Tastings in restaurants across the length and breadth of France would lose their authority.

As he applied a generous helping of ointment to the end of Pommes Frites’ olfactory organ and then pressed a plaster firmly into place, anger filled Monsieur Pamplemousse’s soul. One look at the expression in his friend’s eyes confirmed in him the need for action no matter what the consequences.

Replacing the first aid box in the case, he reached for the
tray containing the camera equipment, then paused for a moment. It was tempting to take a picture of his patient for use in case there were any arguments later. But that would be unkind; it would be rubbing salt into the wound, and salt was the one culinary item any mention of which was strictly taboo for the time being.

Monsieur Pamplemousse came to a decision. Enough was enough. In this instance, more than enough. He picked up another, much larger case and placed it on the bed.

Recognising the signs, Pommes Frites wagged his tail. The possibility of spending any more time in their present surroundings was not something he could enthuse over either. Normally he had great faith in his master’s ability to turn up trumps when it came to finding places to stay, but that too had undergone a severe shaking.

A few minutes later they drove out of the hotel car-park and joined the queue of traffic already heading for the beach.

As the sea came into view Pommes Frites put his head out through the open window on the passenger side and sniffed. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Exhaust fumes rather than ozone filled the air; that, and a strong smell of ointment. Neither was pleasant on an empty stomach. The automatic seat belt alongside Monsieur Pamplemousse tightened as they negotiated the roundabout in the centre of the town and Pommes Frites settled back in his seat.

But if Pommes Frites was looking forward to a gambol on the sands followed by a dip in the ocean, he was disappointed. His master had other priorities. Pulling up alongside a row of telephone
cabines
at the far end of the promenade, Monsieur Pamplemousse signalled Pommes Frites to wait.

Flicking open his wallet as he entered the nearest
cabine,
he withdrew a blue plastic card from its protective covering and committed it to a slot in front of him. Sliding shut the small black door in the apparatus he pressed a series of buttons appropriate to his call; the 16-1 code for Paris, followed by a further eight digits. He noted that nineteen of the original forty units on his
Télécarte
were still available. Provided he
didn’t have too many interruptions they should allow him more than enough time to give vent to his feelings. During the drive from the hotel he had marshalled his thoughts into their appropriate order, rehearsing out loud his end of the conversation, honing it and polishing it until he was word perfect. Even though he hadn’t understood a word, Pommes Frites had got the gist and he’d looked suitably impressed.

‘
Le Guide. Puis-je vous aider
?’ A familiar voice responded before the second ring was complete.

‘Ah, Véronique.
Monsieur le Directeur, s’il vous plaît
.’

‘Monsieur Pamplemousse! How are you? And how is the weather in Brittany?’

‘The weather in Brittany,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is
très bien.
I, unfortunately, am not. I am far from
bien.
’ He kept a watchful eye on the digital counter. Véronique was a nice girl, but he had little time at his disposal for pleasantries. He was short of change and he didn’t want to spend time looking for somewhere to buy another
carte.

Something in the tone of his voice must have conveyed itself via the many cables and amplifiers linking the western coast of France with the seventh
arrondissement
in Paris. Nuances of urgency had not been attenuated
en route.

‘I will put you through at once,
Monsieur
.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse murmured his thanks and waited, growing steadily more impatient with every passing second. Clearly the Director was not poised, as his secretary had been, in readiness to receive incoming calls.

He glanced across the road while he was waiting. A police car was parked outside the circus, but there was no sign of the occupants. Two men were busy setting up the
carrousel.
To the side of one of the caravans a woman was hanging out a line of washing. There was no sign of the girl, Yasmin, although he could see her car parked alongside a big generating lorry near the back. Behind the car, somewhat incongruously, there was a large menhir – one of the many ‘great stones’ bequeathed to that part of Brittany by a people who had inhabited the land even before the Gauls had come upon
the scene.

Looking towards the port he considered the possibility that he might see Mr. Pickering, but the road was empty. Nearly everyone was down on the sand. A low stone wall separated the beach from the promenade, at the same time sheltering beds of late spring flowers from the prevailing wind. That too, was new. Beyond a beflagged sign bearing the words
Centre Sportif
children’s heads rose into view, hovered momentarily, then disappeared again as their owners bounced up and down on a trampoline. Further down the beach other small figures were hard at work building sandcastles, anxious to complete them before they were enveloped by the incoming tide. He guessed they must be English. An insular race, the English, always digging themselves in. Their insularity and desire to conquer started at an early age. Even as he watched, one of them confirmed his suspicions by adding a Union Jack to one of the battlements. A provocative gesture on foreign soil – especially as he must have brought it with him with that sole purpose in mind.