Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft (9 page)

Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t the only one with things on his mind. Pommes Frites had remained unusually quiet during the journey, putting two and two together, first one way and then another, and each time coming up with another answer. His schooling had been based on the computer-like principle that black is black and white is white. The possibility of there being various shades of grey in between had not been introduced to his curriculum in case it led to confusion. Besides, he knew what he knew. The fact that his master didn’t seem at all interested in knowing about it, he put down to a temporary lapse brought on, not unsurprisingly in his view, by the previous evening’s meal followed by going up in a balloon. A lethal combination.

What, in Pommes Frites’ humble opinion, his master needed most in order to restore him to good health was some grass. In fact, he fully expected him to pull in to the side of the road at any moment so that he could gather some.

Pommes Frites’ training was also based on a system which recognised good work when it saw it and rewarded it accordingly – usually with a suitable tit-bit from the
boucherie.
So far that reward had not been forthcoming. Neither, for that
matter, had there been much in the way of recompense for the unwarranted attack on his nose.

It was with these thoughts uppermost in his mind that he followed his master into the bar of the Hôtel du Port, and shortly afterwards outside again onto the terrace.

The bad weather had driven most of the people off the beach and into the cafés, restaurants and
crêperies
around the harbour. Monsieur Pamplemousse had to squeeze his way through a maze of beach-bags, sunshades and other impedimenta to reach the one remaining table in the corner nearest the sea. A smell of damp clothes filled the air. He felt sorry for all those who’d been looking forward to a sun-drenched holiday; even more sorry for the waitresses who were struggling to serve them.

Corks popped, plates clattered. Orders shouted over the heads of the diners were repeated by a disembodied voice from somewhere inside the hotel. Cries of ‘
un Muscadet
’ echoed from all sides, and were repeated as bottles were plunged into buckets of ice.

He wondered if any of the old staff were still there. Most of them had probably got married by now, or forsaken Brittany for the promise of a better life in Paris. The fourteenth
arrondissement
was full of girls who had left home in search of fame and fortune but who had got no further than the area around the Gare Montparnasse. The girl who took his order looked as though she would have happily settled for that with no questions asked. Her
coiffe
was not at its best, her matching lace apron looked decidedly ruffled.

A large and juicy steak was deposited on a nearby serving table by another waitress while she went off for the rest of her order. Monsieur Pamplemousse studiously averted his gaze. Steak was not what he fancied most at that moment. Despite his musings the night before, it was not high on his list of choices when he was staying in an area noted for its seafood, and in his present state of health it had very low priority indeed.

However, at that moment there occurred a strange and
unexpected diversion which totally took his mind off his surroundings and made even Pommes Frites sit up and take notice.

Making her way slowly along the deserted promenade there appeared an elderly female of such bizarre appearance it almost took the breath away. The whole restaurant went quiet at the same instant. One moment it had been all noise and chatter, the next moment silence descended as everybody stopped eating and turned to watch her progress towards them.

In his time, when mingling among the down-and-outs under the bridges of the Seine had been all part of a night’s work, Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he had seen everything. But even the bell which once upon a time rang at the old
Les Halles
vegetable market, signalling the end of trading for the day and the moment when the
clochards
could take their pick of the leftovers, had never brought forth such a truly wretched specimen of humanity.

Two nuns came round a corner, crossed themselves, and then disappeared back the way they had come. A gendarme suddenly discovered he was needed urgently elsewhere and followed suit.

As she loomed nearer, the old woman looked, if possible, even more malodorous. Her putty-coloured hair hung in great knots down her back. The several layers of cardigan covering her upper half were topped by a scarf so matted it looked as though it must have been glued in place. Her feet, partially encased in a pair of ancient carpet slippers held together by string, were black with the dirt of ages. A slit up one side of a grey skirt revealed the top of an even greyer stocking held in place by yet another piece of string. String, in fact, seemed to play an important part in the old woman’s attire. It looked as though anyone foolish enough – or drunk enough – to pull one of the ends would have caused the whole ensemble to collapse.

Much to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s dismay she came to a halt almost directly opposite his table. Waving a battered
parasol with one hand and brandishing an empty wine bottle above her head with the other, she began screaming in a shrill voice for the patron.

Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed her uneasily, uncomfortably aware that his was the only table on the terrace with a spare seat. The possibility of sharing a meal with such an object was not a happy one. He prayed that his omelette wouldn’t arrive. It had been a mistake to ask for it
baveuse
; it could be as overdone as they liked. It could be left to cook for another ten minutes if need be.

He did his best to avoid the old crone’s gaze as she swayed closer and closer, leaning back in his chair as she thrust the empty wine bottle in his face.

Fortunately, he was saved the ultimate embarrassment by the arrival of the
Madame.
She was closely followed by the chef brandishing a large kitchen knife.

His presence was unnecessary.
Madame
was quite capable of dealing with the situation; her vocabulary was more than equal to the task. No conceivable occupation, no possible country of origin was omitted from the list of permutations she flung at the unwelcome intruder. Her performance drew a round of applause.

Pursued by cries of ‘
vieille toupie, vieille bique, boche,
rastaquouère
’, pausing only to indulge herself in the luxury of that classic gesture of contempt –
‘le bras d’honneur
’
the slapping of the right arm above the elbow by the palm of the left, causing the former to rise sharply upwards, the old woman disappeared along the promenade rather faster than she arrived.

‘
Pardon, Monsieur. Poof
!
L’alcoolo
!’ The
Madame
squeezed her way past.

Monsieur Pamplemousse offered his thanks, then bent down and reached under the table. In her haste to leave, the old crone had dropped her bottle. He looked at it thoughtfully, then raised it to his nose and cautiously sniffed the opening. It smelled of honeysuckle.

He wondered. The bottle was empty, but according to the
label it had once contained wine from Savennières, an area just to the north of Angers; a Coulée de Serrant at that – something of a rarity. Not the usual tipple of a wino. And if the lingering bouquet was anything to go by, it had been opened quite recently.

There was something else that bothered him. The old woman had been close enough for him to have caught the full force of any bodily odours she might have had. Expecting the worst – the nauseating, overpoweringly sweet smell which only the extremely unwashed manage to achieve – he’d instinctively drawn himself back. But it hadn’t been like that at all. What little scent he’d detected had really been quite pleasant; more male oriented than female. He was no great expert, but if he’d been asked he would have said it was that of a fairly expensive after-shave.

Hearing a commotion going on behind him, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned in his seat. It didn’t need any great powers of detection to see what had happened and to arrive at an immediate solution. While everyone’s attention had been focused on the goings-on with the old woman, someone had helped themselves to the steak.

In looking for the culprit, the one advantage he had over the others was that he could see Pommes Frites under the table and they couldn’t. Pommes Frites had his eyes closed, but his face said it all. It could have been summed up in the one word –
extase.
And if concrete rather than circumstantial evidence were called for, salivary tests would have been money down the drain. His lips were covered in meat juice. Others may have abandoned their cutlery, but it took a lot to put Pommes Frites off his food.

Monsieur Pamplemousse called for the bill. On the pretext of feeling unwell he paid it as soon as it came and left without waiting for the change. It was only a matter of time before those around him realised what had happened, and when they did, one thing was very certain, it would not be an ideal moment to broach the subject of a room for the night.

He had left the car in a space a little way along the front,
and as he walked towards it felt in a quandary. He could hardly punish Pommes Frites in front of all the people in the Hôtel. It would give the game away.

On the other hand, as with a small child, punishment needed to be carried out immediately – otherwise it would be extremely unfair. Pommes Frites would think it was yet another unprovoked assault and he would be most unhappy.

That was another thing. Far from looking repentant, Pommes Frites’ behaviour was entirely the opposite. Goodness as well as repleteness shone from his eyes. A halo would not have looked out of place; one of the larger sizes. He looked for all the world like a bloodhound who felt himself in line for a medal for services rendered.

Monsieur Pamplemousse was still puzzling over what to do for the best when they reached the car. He let Pommes Frites into the back and was about to climb in himself when he paused and looked across the road, hardly able to believe what he saw.

It was the old woman again. She was skulking behind the
Sanisette.
Worse still, she was clearly beckoning to him. Even as he watched she lifted up her skirt suggestively and started performing a jig. It was not a pretty sight. With the total dedication of a Cartier-Bresson and throwing caution to the winds, Monsieur Pamplemousse pointed his camera in her direction and once again used up the rest of his film. Fortunately, he had left the motor wind on his camera. At least it was all over quickly.

Slamming the 2CV into gear, Monsieur Pamplemousse manoeuvred it out of the parking space. The thought uppermost in his mind was to put as much distance between himself and Port St. Augustin as he could in the fastest possible time.

At the roundabout opposite the
Mairie
he took the road signposted to Nantes. If he did nothing else that afternoon, at least he could dispatch his films to Headquarters. If he was in time to put them on an afternoon train, Trigaux in the art department would have them first thing in the morning. With luck, they would be processed and on their way back to him
by the end of the day.

After that he might call in at a local
vétérinaire.
Pommes Frites’ behaviour had really been most peculiar. It was quite out of character, and totally against his past training. To behave badly once was forgivable, but twice in one morning was not. Either the wound in his nose was troubling him – it could be that there was something in the ink – or there was another, less obvious, cause. Whatever the reason, it definitely needed looking into.

And after that … after that he would stop at a
fleuriste
and buy some flowers for the girl. He could call in with them later that afternoon.

It was early evening before Monsieur Pamplemousse finally got back to the hotel. He parked his car unobtrusively between two British cars, an elderly Rover and a Bentley, and unpacked his luggage.

The news of Yasmin was not good. She had been sent to a larger hospital in Nantes where they had more specialist treatment. He could have kicked himself for not telephoning first, for he must have passed within half a kilometre of her while he was there. At least the flowers were being sent on.

The doctor at the local hospital had been very cagey and full of questions.

‘Did she drink?’

‘Was she addicted to drugs?’

The answer to all of them was he didn’t know. Given her occupation, it seemed unlikely.

‘No, there was no point in going to see her. She wasn’t allowed visitors.’ It was all very depressing.

He had hoped to creep back up to his room unnoticed, but the owner of the Ty Coz was behind the reception desk.

‘
Monsieur
is back!’

‘
Oui.
’ He tried to make it sound as though he had never intended leaving.

The owner looked at his cases. ‘We had thought …’

‘I had need of them,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply.

‘Ah!’

‘Now, if you will excuse me …’

‘
Un moment, Monsieur.
There is a letter for you. It came during
dîner
last night, but you had already retired to your room. I would have given it to you this morning with your
petit déjeuner
, but …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was left in no doubt as to where the fault lay.

The envelope was plain. On the outside it said simply ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse, Ty Coz’. He didn’t recognise the writing.

‘There was no other message?’ He slid his thumb under the flap and removed a single sheet of white paper.

‘
Non, Monsieur.
It must have been delivered by hand while everyone was busy in the restaurant. It was found on the desk.’

He read the note several times. It was brief and to the point: the salient words were heavily underlined.

‘I
must see you.
Please
do not come to me. I
will come to
you,
later tonight after the show. Take
great care
!’