Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation (17 page)

It figured: the fortress-like construction; the high-tech electrics everywhere. The realisation gave him hope. One thought swiftly followed another. Feeling inside a half-forgotten hip pocket of his trousers his fingers touched gold.

There wasn’t a moment to lose. Already he could hear a restless movement in the corridor outside. Any
second there would be a knock on the door. Pressing one foot against it, he lifted the lid of the cistern and checked the inside.

What he had in mind was probably a forlorn gesture; akin to being marooned on a tiny island in the Pacific and putting a message into a bottle hoping someone would find it, but anything was better than nothing.

Back in the room and left to his own devices, Monsieur Pamplemousse entered what promised at the time to be the second longest period in his life. Not that he was anxious for visitors. The measured tread of people coming up the stairs was not something he was looking forward to hearing. Deprived of any means of telling the time, he was reduced to playing a guessing game with himself. Having decided he must be in the tower block at the school, he tried getting some idea from what he calculated must be the sun’s position in the sky.

It could be, of course, that with the Mafiya turning out in force they were all still in Nice.

The rescue when it came had all the hallmarks of a Special Services force storming a hijacked plane, except that no shots were fired.

There was everything else: sirens, the roar of engines, tyres screeching, shouts, a woman screaming. Then came the pounding of feet up the stairs, followed by more shouting and an exchange of oaths. There was a great crash on his door and the business end of an
axe broke through the centre panel. A face appeared in the gap.

‘Où est-il?’

‘Where is it?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse sized up the situation in a flash. He recognised the symptoms all too clearly. The strained expression on the man’s face. The wild look in his eyes. The sense that there was not a moment to lose.

‘You have come to the wrong room,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is the door on your right at the end of the corridor!’

‘If I had known then what I know now, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I would never have sent you to Nice.’

And if I knew then what I know now,
Monsieur,’
said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I might not have gone.’

Except, of course, he would have done. Anyway, the Director didn’t know the half of it. He had deliberately kept his story short. Had he not done so, Monsieur Leclercq would have gone into every detail at great length and they would have been stuck in his office until Doomsday. As it was, Pommes Frites was already beginning to show signs of unrest.

He’d been right about the flowers. Doucette hadn’t been the only person to be let into the secret of the scam. Word had reached Monsieur Leclercq and he in turn had passed it on to Madame Grante. It also explained the absence of any other mourners from
Le Guide
.

The Director picked up the egg and held it for a moment. It was a gesture Monsieur Pamplemousse had become all too familiar with. The careful weighing in the palm of the hand, followed by a closer look; then the holding of it up to the light.

‘To think that someone died because of this!’ Monsieur Leclercq selected a button from one of a row let into his desk and pressed it, causing a slatted blind in the south-facing wall of his office on the top floor of
Le Guide’
s headquarters in the rue Fabert to rise. Sunshine streamed in as he crossed to the window.

‘Chantal must never know, of course,’ he continued, holding the egg up to the light. ‘She would be mortified. She loves her uncle very dearly, but he can be over-generous at times – especially with other people’s property.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘If it hadn’t been the egg,
Monsieur
, it would have been something else. A painting, perhaps. A figurine.’

‘If only it had the power of speech, what tales it could probably tell. Sagas involving the cream of the Russian aristocracy. Stories of love and intrigue …’

‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse pointedly, ‘it is better for all of us that it can’t talk, particularly when it comes to describing more recent events.’

The Director hastily changed the subject.

‘I must say it does look in need of a polish. It is slightly encrusted with dirt here and there. On the other hand, the sunshine makes it look almost good enough to eat.’

‘I wouldn’t recommend it,
Monsieur
.’

Monsieur Leclercq sniffed the egg.

‘You are right, Aristide. I do detect a somewhat peculiar odour, not unlike one that has gone addled. It is hard to place, but …’ Pondering the problem, he gazed out across the rooftops of Paris, as though seeking inspiration in the golden dome of the Hôtel des Invalides. ‘Where have I come across it before?’

‘With respect,
Monsieur
, I think you should set your sights a little lower,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘What are you saying, Aristide?’

‘The
oeuf
you are holding to your nose has recently spent some time wallowing in the mire beneath the streets of Nice.’

‘Dans les egouts?’
The Director nearly dropped it at the thought. ‘What, may I ask, was it doing in the sewers of the Côte d’Azur? Come to that, what were you doing down there, Pamplemousse? It is no wonder you are without a tan. Don’t tell me you were testing the canteen facilities? However good they are, they are hardly likely to be on our list of recommended eating establishments. I can’t picture them being worthy of a bar stool, let alone a Stockpot, although a stool might well be an apposite symbol.’

‘I doubt if the inhabitants would appreciate such an award anyway,
Monsieur
. In my experience bureaucracy is often at its worst below street level. The employees of sanitation departments seem to hold a jaundiced view of those in other walks of life. Welcome is not writ large on their faces if you happen
to come across an open manhole and look down on them. Rather the reverse.’

‘When you are working below ground like that, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director reprovingly, ‘exposed to human detritus for hours on end, I daresay it is all too easy to take a jaundiced view of the goings-on overhead, especially when it is somewhere like Nice, devoted as it is to the sybaritic pleasures of life. The contrast must be even greater than usual when you come up for air.’

‘On the other hand,
Monsieur
, if they are anything like the Paris sewers, they do say that after the waters have been processed it is possible to drink them.’

‘They – whoever “they” may be – can say it until they are blue in the face. I very much doubt if those in charge practise what they preach. I shall remain faithful to those waters emanating from the springs of Vichy, preferably Celestin.

‘However, all that is by the by. It doesn’t explain what the egg was doing down there in the first place.’

‘The simple explanation,
Monsieur
, is that I had the misfortune to lose it down one of the open manholes I mentioned. It would be wrong if you were to thank me for its recovery. I was lying in the road at the time. It was entirely Pommes Frites’ doing.’

‘Pommes Frites!’ The Director’s voice softened as he turned and gazed towards a dark corner of the room where a familiar form was sitting quietly beneath a small table listening to the conversation. ‘Hiding his light under a bushel as ever.’

‘They do say a bloodhound can pick up a trail that is anything up to two weeks old,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘On this occasion it was fresh—’

‘Nevertheless,’ broke in the Director, ‘it was a signal achievement. He must have had a wide choice. It says a great deal for his olfactory powers that from all the scents assailing his nostrils he was able to pick up that of a single
oeuf.’

Hand extended, the Director set off to traverse the vast expanse of carpet in order to offer his congratulations, but as he drew near Pommes Frites he seemed to think better of it and turned instead to a control panel let into the wall and turned one of the knobs.

A draught of cool air wafted across the room, ruffling Pommes Frites’ fur in the process.

‘Sacrebleu!’
Monsieur Leclercq hastily turned the knob as far as it would go in the reverse direction.

Uttering cries of
‘formidable!’
he retraced his steps and flung open a window. ‘One thing is certain, Pamplemousse. Others will have no trouble following Pommes Frites’ trail for some weeks to come.’

‘I fear the smell lingers,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Notwithstanding several baths in strong disinfectant before leaving Nice, we had the carriage to ourselves on the train back to Paris.

‘We met with a similar problem on the
autobus
this morning. Fortunately the number 80 was extremely crowded and we had to stand, so few people knew where the smell was coming from, but it was not a
happy journey. There was a good deal of unrest: cries of
“merde!”
and
“nom d’un nom!”
mingled with shouts of “Stop the bus”. Half the occupants wanted the windows open, the other half said it only made matters worse and wanted them closed. The latter won, of course. It is the rule. When there is an argument those who want it closed have priority.’

‘I have never been on an
autobus,’
said the Director. ‘It is another world. Perhaps,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘he might appreciate going through the car wash at my local garage. He could take this egg with him and kill two birds with one stone.’

‘It is only a matter of time,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I am meeting my wife shortly. Doucette is of the opinion that a walk in the Luxembourg Gardens followed by a dip in the Seine will work wonders.’

‘Would that I could accompany you, Aristide,’ said the Director, ‘but I fear I have an important meeting scheduled.’

Returning to his desk he opened a drawer. ‘Changing the subject – and this will please Pommes Frites too – it so happens that I have a surprise for you both.’

Removing a small parcel he began slowly unwrapping it, milking the moment for all he was worth.

‘Le Guide’
s issue camera has been found. It had been buried in the sand on the beach outside the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or. By sheer chance a small child who had been given a treasure seeker for her birthday came
across it. She has been suitably rewarded, of course. I have sent her a signed copy of this year’s guide.

‘Had you gone to Le Touquet as planned, who knows what state the mechanism would have been in with the tide ebbing and flowing twice daily. Nevertheless,’ he held the camera aloft, ‘it is a great tribute to the manufacturing standards of Messrs Leitz. So much so, it has led me to believe we should seize the opportunity.

‘I understand they recently received a lifetime award for the greatest contribution to photography of the twentieth century – the development of the 35mm Leica camera.

‘There are parallels to be drawn. Our own contribution to the world of
haute cuisine
has not gone unremarked among the powers that be. What I have in mind is a joint advertising campaign extolling the old-fashioned values common to both our organisations.’

‘A photograph of the camera alongside a copy of
Le Guide
, perhaps?’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse. The Director’s enthusiasm was infectious. He could see it all.

‘That is one possibility, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, clearly gratified at the reception accorded his idea. ‘However, I have since had another flash of inspiration.’ Reaching across his desk, he pressed a button.

‘Véronique … Have the prints arrived? Good. Bring them in.’ He turned back to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As it happens there was a film in the camera and I
asked Trigaux to process it. If the pictures turn out well, they will lend added interest to the campaign. A film which has been inside a camera, which has itself lain buried in the sands of Cap d’Antibes for several days will be quite unique.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked puzzled. ‘But I didn’t have time to take any pictures,
Monsieur
. If you recall, I had only just finished loading a new spool when I was attacked from behind.’

‘With respect, Aristide, I think you are mistaken. Trigaux assured me the film had been wound back into its cassette, so it must have been exposed. I am hoping you may have some shots of the hotel or the beach. They would be particularly apposite.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t pursue the conversation, for at that moment Véronique entered the room carrying a large manila envelope. It struck him she was looking unusually nervous as she handed it to Monsieur Leclercq. Patently avoiding eye to eye contact, she left again as quickly as possible.

‘And now, the moment of truth!’ Lifting the unsealed flap, the Director felt inside the envelope, withdrew a handful of 210 x 297 mm enlargements, and spread them out across his desk. ‘What did I tell you?’ he exclaimed. ‘Most satisfactory. Typical of the standard one has come to take for granted from Leica – pin-sharp images – all beautifully exposed – lovely gradations. Each one a work of art.’

Seeing that at first sight the prints appeared to be upside down, he riffled through the pile, turning them
round to face the other way. As he did so Monsieur Pamplemousse managed to get a closer look. His heart sank. It was no wonder the Director’s secretary had looked nervous. Taking a deep breath while he waited for the storm to break, he pictured her doing the same thing in the outer office. It had gone very quiet.

The several seconds which elapsed while Monsieur Leclercq stared at the photographs before he exploded felt like an eternity.

‘What are you doing lying on the ground like that, Pamplemousse?’ he demanded. ‘And what are all these girls up to?’ He picked up another picture. ‘And why is that woman crouching over you? She looks young enough to be your daughter.’

‘She was about to give me the kiss of life,
Monsieur.’

‘In the
soixante-neuf
position?’

‘We all have our methods,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively.

‘And this one,’ Monsieur Leclercq picked up a third print. ‘What, may I ask, is that object you are clutching?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse took a closer look. ‘It is my baton,
Monsieur.’

‘I am not interested in what you call it, Pamplemousse,’ barked the Director. ‘I am more concerned with what you intend doing with it.’

Picking up a magnifying glass, he took a closer look.
‘Mon dieu!
It is not possible?’

‘It is kind of you to say so,
Monsieur,’
said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But it is not what you think. It is a
saucisson
. If you remember, I bought Pommes Frites a
Bâton de
Berger
as a treat. I had been using it in order to defend myself …’

‘Stop!’ bellowed the Director. ‘I do not wish to hear another word. Is there no end to your depravity? These photographs are worse than the last ones you sent me. Far worse! In the first film you were patently preparing yourself for an orgy of the very worst kind. But these defy description. What am I going to tell the Leica representative when he arrives from Dusseldorf?’

‘With respect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, clutching at straws, ‘I think he will be coming from Wetzler. That is where their main offices are.’

‘Stop splitting hairs, Pamplemousse,’ barked the Director. ‘I have told you about it before.

‘And what was Pommes Frites doing all this time?’ he continued. ‘Keeping a watchful eye open I imagine? Baring his teeth to make sure no passers-by interrupted you while you satisfied your base desires?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face cleared. ‘That was it,
Monsieur
. I remember now. He must have been taking the pictures.’

The Director’s eyes bulged. ‘I can hardly believe my ears!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought I had heard everything, but training a dog to record your unseemly activities beggars belief. No doubt you also persuaded him to bury the camera in the sand until such time as you could retrieve the film after dark.’

‘You misunderstand me,
Monsieur
. There is a very
simple explanation. Pommes Frites chased after my assailant and wrestled the camera from him. When he returned he had it in his mouth and it so happened that not only was it still set to automatic, but it was pointing in my direction. One of his incisors must have made contact with the shutter release. I remember hearing a whirring noise. That was why he rushed off and buried it. He probably thought it was a bomb. It is what he is trained to do. As for the girl who was bending over me … why, Leitz could make capital of the fact that even a dog can take wonderful pictures if he owns a Leica …’