Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation (13 page)

Drawings of fishing boats adorned the dark wood-panelled walls. Among them, on the wall near the bar, was a framed embroidery bearing the words
L’aigo-boulido sauvo le vido
. Loosely translated he took it to mean ‘garlic soup saves lives’. A bead curtain separated the main room from the kitchen, and behind it he could hear the business-like sound of a baguette slicer at work.

In the far corner an ancient radio did battle against noise coming from the fair, while from under a table an Alsatian dog kept watch on the comings and goings. It was another reason why he wasn’t wholly sorry to have left Pommes Frites behind. The world had enough problems over territorial rights as it was.

The Madame appeared, negotiated the beads with practised ease, spread a brown paper ‘table cloth’ in front of him, and having placed a single spoon on top, stood poised, order pad and pencil at the ready as she awaited his order. As if she didn’t know!

A Ricard, a
L’aigo-boulido, a demi-pichet
of red
vin
ordinaire
… each item received a nod of approval, followed by the ultimate accolade of
parfait
.

What more could anyone wish for? If they did they were welcome to go elsewhere!

A copy of his order was removed from the pad and placed under a jug. Moments later the
pastis
materialised, along with a jug of ice-cold water and a basket of bread.

The soup came as an individual portion served at the table. First to arrive was a generous helping of hot garlic
bouillon
containing a sprig of sage and a bayleaf. Sprinkled with olive oil and stirred, it was added a little at a time to a bowl containing beaten egg yolk. After the two had been combined and served, the remaining mixture was returned to a double boiler to keep warm.

The dish was all that Mr Pickering had cracked it up to be. With every spoonful Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his voice returning. It cried out for a second helping.

Finally wiping the bowl clean with the last of the
baguette
, he drained his glass and called for
l’addition
. The Madame didn’t seem at all surprised. On the contrary, the state of his bowl brought a smile of pleasure to her face.

‘You must be looking forward to the fair moving on.’

She gave a shrug. ‘It brings in the evening trade.’

He wondered. They wouldn’t be the choicest customers in town. It was hard to picture Mr Pickering taking his evening meal there. And yet … passing
on the other’s message produced another warm smile. Clearly, he had left his mark.

Leaving the bistro, he headed towards the harbour. Worming his way through a cluster of tow-trucks and mobile homes – mostly Ford, but with a sprinkling of other makes: Citroën T55, Renault, Opel and Berliet; the usual hodge-podge of fairground vehicles – he felt a renewed spring in his step.

The noise grew louder: a pot-pourri of sound. Organ music from an old Bayol children’s carousel with carved wooden gingerbread pigs; the steady crack of rifle shots from a shooting gallery – all mirrors and gilt and lined with portraits of film stars contemporary at the time when it was built – Maurice Chevalier, Charlie Chaplin, Fernandel. Girlish screams came from a wooden boat as it hurtled down a chute before landing with a huge splash in the water below. Above it all, there was the low roar of generators and the characteristic smell of discharging electricity from the dodgem cars. The big wheel was doing a roaring trade.

On past the maze with its distorting mirrors, and the ‘Boîte à Rire’ Fun House; if the graphics in the style of Jacques Coutois outside were anything to go by it was another throwback to the days when travelling fairs provided prostitutes for their customers. He wondered if the Russians might revive the custom and whether they frequented the bistro where he’d just had lunch.

At the far end he came across the ride he was looking for. His first sight of it was when a steel cage-like object suddenly hurtled skywards, executed
a quick flip, then disappeared again. He quickened his pace.

There were more people watching than there were queuing to have a go. Even so, there was clearly a brisk turnover. As he joined the crowd two girls paid their money and began screaming with excitement the moment they were strapped into the seats. There was a pause while the cables hanging from the two elevated steel support poles – one on each side – tightened and took up the strain, then the operator stood clear and pressed a foot pedal.

Paradoxically, as the cage was catapulted upwards the screaming stopped. It resumed as it reached the end of its run, rotated through 360 degrees, then bounced up and down four or five times before finally coming to rest. It was all over in less than a minute.

The operator lowered it gently to the ground before locating it onto a spigot protruding from the platform.

Monsieur Pamplemousse had a feeling he recognised the man, but perhaps it was simply that he looked like fairground operators the world over.

Feeling a presence at his side he turned and found himself face to face with the person he had come to think of as Krushev’s minder. Close to his teeth looked even more metallic than they had from a distance. He wondered if he cleaned them regularly with metal polish. If he didn’t, did they ever go rusty during the night?

‘Fancy a ride?’ It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.

‘I have better things to do with my life than entrust it to a set of elastic bands,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Particularly after a good lunch.’ He was about to move away when he felt something small, round and hard pressing into his back, propelling him forward.

‘We need to talk.’ The man spoke French with an American accent.

As they reached the head of the queue a couple who had been about to climb into the cage began to remonstrate.

There was a short sharp exchange of words. The girl stifled a cry of alarm, her companion went pale.

Monsieur Pamplemousse made a quick calculation of his options. There wasn’t a uniform in sight, and for the moment at least no one in the waiting crowd looked as though they would be on his side; if anything it was very much the reverse.

He felt himself being forced into the nearest seat. ‘Breathe out,
Monsieur
.’ The operator bent over him.

Monsieur Pamplemousse turned his head away and obeyed. What sounded like a Russian imprecation came from the adjoining seat as the Russian climbed in. It was good to know that there was still satisfaction to be gained from the little things in life, like recycled garlic soup.

‘Hold very tight,
Monsieur
,’ whispered the operator. Once again Monsieur Pamplemousse had a fleeting feeling of
déjà vu.
Somewhere in his early twenties, the operator was sweating profusely. His hands were
trembling as he tried to engage the tongue of a
five-point
safety belt.

Monsieur Pamplemousse decided on the direct approach towards his companion while he was being attended to.

‘What do you know of the man who was washed up at the hotel the other night?’

He was rewarded with a non-committal shrug. ‘In Russia we have a proverb: “A mouthful of sea-water gives you the taste of the ocean.”’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning some people become greedy.’

‘Perhaps he simply believed in free enterprise …’

‘My friend, the only free cheese is in the mouse-trap.’

‘We in the West would say you should never commit yourself to a cheese without first examining it,’ replied Monsieur Pamplemousse, not to be outdone.

‘If you are a mouse,’ said the man, ‘that is almost always the last thing you say. Unless you want to end up looking like a Swiss Gruyere, you’ll tell me what’s happened to the girl.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at him. So that was it. He doubted if he had been coerced into taking a ride on the Human Slingshot simply to indulge in an exchange of national proverbs. He was about to seek final refuge by quoting Bertolt Brecht – wondering out loud what happened to the hole when the cheese was no longer there – when there was a sudden whip-like crack of escaping air and before he had a chance to brace himself they took off.

An experienced astronaut would have been able to quantify the effects brought on by maximum acceleration as the cage left the ground. But even if he’d had the benefit of such a luxury, it was doubtful if Monsieur Pamplemousse would have taken it in. The loss of any sense of balance as the fluid in the inner ear went haywire, coupled with the feeling of increased weight as g-forces battled to push his body in the opposite direction saw to that.

As his heartrate gathered speed, seeking to get the vital oxygen-bearing blood flowing back to his brain as quickly as possible, a feeling of nausea swept over him.

Aware of tightening stomach muscles, he thought he was about to faint.

The momentary, but no less fervent wish that he had gone without a second helping of
L’aigo-boulido
was short-lived. As the forces of gravity overcame the forces of acceleration, the cage came to a halt and began to revolve. Almost immediately there was a violent shudder and it began to twist.

Hearing a long drawn-out gasp like the howling of a wind from somewhere far below, he opened his eyes and realised the seat next to him was empty.

A split second later came a feeling of weightlessness as the cage began its descent, hurtling towards the ground at terrifying speed. Clutching the safety bar in front of him as though his life depended on it, he looked down and saw a small crowd of people gathered round a huddled shape on the concrete jetty. Mercifully
no one else had been involved, but from the way the man was lying he didn’t fancy his chances of a quick recovery.

Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t know what he felt. Shock? Anger? Indifference?

He wondered if it was the work of Uncle Caputo, or a genuine mistake on the part of the operator. What Todd would have called ‘negative over-reaction’. Perhaps he had been acting under orders? Either way he wouldn’t fancy being in his shoes if the Russians caught up with him.

As the up and down oscillations of the cage rapidly diminished he saw there was a fresh operator waiting for him, and he remembered all too late where he had last seen his predecessor.

It had been back at the hotel when he had tried to send his trousers to be cleaned.

It was no wonder the youth had seemed in a highly nervous state. Clearly, his travels hadn’t taken him quite as far as Mr Pickering had pictured. He was probably already making up for lost time.

Another thought struck him as the replacement helped him out of the cage. If others subscribed to the theory of there being a third solution to every problem, he knew who would be next in line to get the blame.

In most peoples’ eyes it would be a clear case of ‘Did the man fall, or was he pushed?’

‘Who on earth can have sent them?’ exclaimed Madame Pamplemousse. ‘They must have cost a fortune.’

A
croissant
poised halfway to her mouth, she gazed at an enormous bunch of white lilies which had been delivered along with their breakfast tray. ‘Are you sure there’s no message?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse took a closer look. ‘Quite sure.’

In total there must have been thirty long stems; far too many for the vase in their room. They looked more suited to one of the boats moored in the nearby harbour, most of which were little more than floating florist’s shops anyway, and he wondered if they had been sent to the hotel by mistake. Perhaps, even now, another richer, but temporarily flowerless yacht-owner was pacing his deck working himself up into a lather.

‘It could be a present from Monsieur and Madame Leclercq.’

‘For what? We haven’t done anything yet.’

‘They don’t know that,’ persisted Doucette. ‘You must find out. Otherwise I shan’t know who to thank and that will be terrible.’

The implied division of duties didn’t pass unnoticed. Stifling a sigh, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up his cup and saucer. Watched by some anxious sparrows, he balanced a half-eaten
pain au
sucre
on the rim of the cup and disappeared into the bedroom. Picking up the house phone, he dialled 5 for reception. Clearly there would be no peace until the mystery had been solved. In the meantime his coffee was getting cold.

The concierge was desolate. ‘No,
Monsieur
, there was no message.’ But he remembered the name on the side of the delivery van because it had arrived unusually early. Just as he was coming on duty, in fact. It was a well-known florist in Nice. If
Monsieur
would wait one moment, he would look up their number …

Monsieur
took advantage of the pause to drain his cup.

‘I have it for you,
Monsieur
. If you wish, I will dial it for you and have the call transferred to your room.’

‘Even better,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, mindful of Madame Grante’s current purge on the use of hotel telephones, ‘give me the number and I will use my mobile.’

That apart, he wanted to get the matter settled as
quickly as possible. What with one thing and another – first the body in the sea, then the episode at the fair – he had enough things on his mind without adding any more to the list.

Removing his handset from the charger, he dialled the number and waited.

When he finally got through, the girl sounded breathless. He wasn’t surprised. It was early in the day and most of the staff were probably busy assembling orders. They wouldn’t exactly be fighting each other to answer the telephone.

Having apologised, he explained the problem and asked for the name of the mysterious benefactor.

‘I am afraid I am unable to give it to you,
Monsieur
.’

‘You mean you do not have it? Surely there must be a record of it somewhere? Can you not try looking in your order book?’

‘No,
Monsieur
, that is not the problem. I have the information here in front of me. It is on the computer screen.’

‘Good,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Then may I have it, please.’

‘That is the problem,
Monsieur
. It is because it is on the computer screen that I am unable to give it to you.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the receiver.
‘Excusez-moi
. Would you mind repeating that? I do not understand.’

‘I am unable to provide you with the information you require,’ said the girl, enunciating the words carefully, as though addressing a hapless two-year-old, ‘because
it would be against the Data Protection Act. How do I know you are who you say you are?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the telephone. It was happening again; a hideous variation on the list of buttons to press syndrome. Where would it all end?

‘How do I know I am who I say I am?’ he repeated. He was beginning to wonder himself.

‘Have I the misfortune to be speaking to a distant relation of a Monsieur Kafka, late of Prague?’ he demanded. ‘A third cousin twice removed perhaps? I know I am who I say I am because I looked at my reflection in the mirror when I was shaving this morning. You will have to take my word for it. How do I know you are who you say you are?
Par exemple
, you could be someone from the electricity company.’

His sarcasm fell on stony ground.

‘If you wish to know,’ said the girl primly, ‘my name is Anne-Marie and I have my instructions. It is more than my job is worth to reveal the information you are asking for. I suggest if
Monsieur
is unhappy he refuses to accept delivery.’

‘That is not possible,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Your van has already been and gone. However, if you really wish to see how unhappy I am, I will catch the next train into Nice. While I am with you I will demonstrate in the clearest possible manner how much your own data storage system is in need of protection. I trust you keep it locked in a fire-proof safe.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘If you were to give me some possible names of people who might be
sending you flowers,
Monsieur
,’ said the girl, ‘I can tell you whether or not you are correct.’

Swallowing his pride, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried out Doucette’s suggestions;
Le Guide
, followed by Monsieur and Madame Leclercq. It sounded pathetically short.

‘How about the Pickerings?’ called Doucette from the balcony. ‘It could be a “thank you” for dinner the other evening.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse doubted it. Including delivery charges, the flowers must have cost more than the meal, but it was worth a try.

‘
Monsieur
is very cold,’ said the girl. ‘Perhaps you could try giving me some areas and I will tell you if you are getting warm.’

‘Antibes?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse lamely, his memory for place names momentarily deserting him.

‘
Monsieur
is getting warm,’ said the girl excitedly. ‘
Very
warm …’

A thought struck him. ‘If I were to mention the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or …’

‘
Monsieur
is in great danger of burning himself …’ The girl’s voice went up an octave or two. From the sound of her heavy breathing she was almost wetting her
culottes
with excitement.

‘Why didn’t you say that in the first place?’ he growled. ‘I know. Don’t tell me. You have your instructions. But when you have a spare moment, please ask your superior who is protecting who from what and from whom? Now, since I have guessed the
location correctly, perhaps you can give me the name. If it wasn’t Pickering, then who was it?’

‘Putin,’ whispered the girl. ‘A Monsieur Vladimir Putin. And he paid cash. He said he was expecting a funeral. That is why they had to be all white. He seemed very cheerful about it …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse terminated the call.

‘Aristide,’ said Doucette, as he returned to the balcony. ‘Is anything the matter? You look quite pale. Just as you were beginning to get a tan.’

‘Nothing is the matter with me, Couscous,’ growled Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is the world. It is going crazier by the minute. You are absolutely right in what you say. People have so many different ways of talking to each other nowadays, they are in grave danger of ending up barely communicating at all. When I think back to my old mother and the time when we had our first telephone … life was simple then. If it rang before nine in the morning or after six o’clock in the evening she had palpitations because it meant bad news. She was usually right. I well remember the night Tante Hortense fell down a well and got stuck …

‘As for mobile phones … this one has brought me nothing but trouble ever since I had it.’ He thrust his arm up in the air. ‘That is what I think of mobile phones!’

The fluttering of wings as the sparrows perched on the balustrade hastily dispersed was punctuated by a faint splash.

‘Aristide!’ Doucette looked at him in horror. ‘What will Madame Grante say?’

‘Quite frankly,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse lamely, ‘I don’t care!’

The truth of the matter was he hadn’t intended to let go of the mobile. It was simply that his encounter with the girl in the flower shop had made his hands sweaty, and that, in turn, had acted as a lubricant, causing the instrument to shoot from his grasp with all the velocity of a cork from a champagne bottle when it has been kept overlong in a freezer. He couldn’t have done it again if he’d been paid. His heart sank as he pictured trying to explain it in a P37B.

‘Perhaps I could send Madame Grante the flowers,’ he said. ‘Monsieur Leclercq did suggest it might be a good idea.’

‘Certainly not!’ said Doucette. Glancing over the balcony, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s gaze softened as he saw Pommes Frites emerging from the sea. Gazing upwards as he shook off the excess water, he spotted his master. Unable to give voice to his feelings by virtue of the fact that his mouth was full, he began jumping up and down, wagging his tail with unalloyed pleasure. Love was unmistakably written large on his countenance. Clearly he was all set for an action replay.

Monsieur Pamplemousse quickly polished off the remains of his breakfast. ‘I must go, Couscous,’ he said. Feeling in his pocket, he produced the egg. ‘The sooner I establish whether or not this rightfully belongs to Monsieur and Madame Leclercq, the sooner we can be together and enjoy what is left of our holiday.’

Madame Pamplemousse knew better than to ask him how he planned to go about doing that, and truth to tell, even if she had he couldn’t have told her. As he made his way downstairs he wasn’t sure where to start. At the beginning was how he had always been taught. The old electrician’s formula of ‘assuming all external connections are correct’.

The first person he met was Mr Pickering. He was sitting on the terrace doing a crossword. An open copy of
Nice Matin
lay on the table beside him.

‘I see you had a narrow squeak yesterday afternoon,’ he said. ‘Fame at last!’

Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the French paper and stared at a picture of himself being helped out of the cage at the fairground. During his time with the Paris
Sûreté
he’d had his share of exposure in the press, usually showing him arriving at the scene of a crime, but this was the kind of publicity he could well do without. Someone must be congratulating themselves on having captured the moment for posterity.

He skimmed through the story. The police were still trying to discover the identity of the person who had occupied the seat next to him. Still trying, or didn’t want to say. The search was also on for the missing operator, who was said to be English.

‘Not a nice experience,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘I feel partly responsible, having suggested you visit the fair in the first place.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘Accidents happen.’

‘According to the makers that is not possible, but then of course they would say that. However, be that as it may, it ties in with a conversation I overheard last night in the lift.

‘People usually go very quiet in lifts. There isn’t time to tell a long story, and if they are only going a short distance they spend the time racking their brains trying to think up something witty that doesn’t need a reply. The only exception is if they think they are among foreigners who won’t understand what they are saying.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse was reminded of the two Englishmen in the train.

‘Last night Jan and I shared the lift with our friend – the one you aptly call Kruschev – and someone I hadn’t seen before. From his accent I suspect he was from somewhere north of the Urals. They were talking about what had happened at the fair.

‘It rang a bell when I saw your picture this morning. I think they may have had you in mind.’

‘You speak Russian?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt inadequate.

‘Enough to recognise a serious statement when I hear one. As with Pommes Frites, certain key words cause an immediate reaction. Words like
Frantsús
– meaning Frenchman – entered the conversation. The consensus of opinion seemed to be that a
Frantsús
had to be taken care of. I’m not sure when or how, but from the way they nudged each other as we went past your floor – I couldn’t help thinking of you. As I say, we
didn’t go far. But the little I overheard didn’t sound encouraging.’

‘I am planning to go into Nice this morning,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘On the trail of the golden egg?’

‘That is one thing,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There are other matters that need looking into. Things to do with France.’

Mr Pickering nodded. ‘As ever, the redoubtable Miss Stein summed it up. “It isn’t so much what France gives you as what it doesn’t take away”. Such things are very precious. It would be a pity to lose them. Are you going alone?’

‘Doucette is visiting the butterfly centre with your wife. She has been told to wear something bright and to go early, before it gets too crowded.’

‘And while many of the inhabitants are still around,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘Genetically modified crops and pesticides are creating havoc with caterpillars. When I was small, I had an uncle who collected butterflies. He had cases full of them, impaled in neat rows, all with grand names: Red Admirals, Purple Emperors, Silver Studded Blues.

‘Nowadays you are lucky if you catch sight of a common or garden Meadow Brown.

‘It is a strange life, being a butterfly. To be born so beautiful and remain that way for the whole of your life. Many ladies would pay a king’s ransom for that. But as always there is a price to pay. Their average life expectancy is only three weeks.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Life is very precious. I suggest you keep a close eye on what’s going on behind you from now on.’

‘Even better,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I am taking Pommes Frites.’

Mr Pickering hesitated. ‘You place great trust in him.’

‘I would trust Pommes Frites with my life,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘And I am sure he feels exactly the same way about me.’

‘Let us hope neither of you are put to the test,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘Changing the subject completely. Have you heard about the
Visiobulle
?’