Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (11 page)

It was an allusion to his past. His fame must have travelled further than he’d ever realised. No doubt the photograph had clinched matters in Chambard’s mind. It would be in character.

‘
Merci.
Perhaps later.’ He had no wish to get involved with the local Police for the time being, but there was no sense in putting their backs up.

A thought struck him. ‘In the meantime, perhaps you could do me a favour?’ He felt in his pocket and took out the postcard to Doucette. ‘It is to my wife. If you would be kind enough to post it for me.’

‘Of course.’ The wink as Chambard pocketed the card was even more meaningful. Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to reciprocate when he realised the other couldn’t see it, so he removed his glasses and under the pretence of rubbing his eyes used his hand as a shield.

Doctor Furze hovered at the door. ‘I find all this most unsatisfactory, Inspector. I shall report back to Herr Schmuck and no doubt you will hear further.’

Inspector Chambard looked unmoved by the implied threat. He picked up the photograph. ‘If you don’t mind, I will keep this for the time being.’

The bathroom door opened and Paradou emerged carrying a plastic bag. Pommes Frites must have relented. ‘I’ll tell you something funny, Chief –’

‘Later.’ Inspector Chambard waved his subordinates on their way. He suddenly seemed anxious to leave. Looking aggrieved, Paradou followed his colleague out of the room.

Chambard looked at his watch. ‘
Au
revoir
,
Monsieur Pamplemousse.’

‘
Au
revoir
, Inspector.’ A moment later they were gone. He heard their voices disappearing down the corridor. Doctor Furze was still holding forth. He looked at his own watch. It said five-thirty five. There would be time to kill before Mrs. Cosgrove put in an appearance. Time to marshal his thoughts.

Pommes Frites had clearly been trying to marshal his thoughts during the time he’d spent in his kennel. Without a great deal of success, if the furrows on his brow as he came out of the bathroom were anything to go by. The game he had played with the policeman had been enjoyable up to a point, like playing cat and mouse. Several times when he’d laid his paw gently on the man’s hand it had produced a satisfactory muffled scream; but it was definitely a spectator sport. It was
nothing without an audience and he was glad he’d managed to conceal the bulk of the sausages at the back of his kennel. Now he was ready for action and patently, action was something which for the time being had a very low priority on his master’s agenda. Monsieur Pamplemousse, his brow equally furrowed, was sitting at the table, a pile of forms set neatly in front of him, sucking the end of his Cross pen, torn between two items of work on his immediate agenda.

On the one hand there was his duty to
Le
Guide.
So far, apart from one or two desultory scrawlings on his pad, he hadn’t made a single note. On the other hand lay the secondary, or for all he knew perhaps even the primary, reason for his being at Château Morgue; and short of paying a visit to the local vet and ordering him to carry out an immediate search for the letter, those reasons would remain entombed in Pommes Frites’ stomach – if they hadn’t already passed through. He was in a quandary and no mistake.

Not, he reflected, as he gazed at the pile of papers in front of him, that there was anything blank about
Le
Guide’
s report forms. Quite the reverse.

They were based on the simple premise that all things are capable of being analysed provided they are broken down into their basic component parts, like the myriad tiny dots making up the picture on the television screen, each equating its particular shade of colour into an equivalent voltage.

Although there was a large section at the end for a written report, the main bulk of the form was taken up by over five hundred basic questions to which the answer was a simple ‘
oui
’ or ‘
non
’, thus ensuring that despite differences of temperament and taste, all Inspectors spoke the same language. Tastes might vary, but standards never. It also provided an insurance against any kind of bribery or corruption, for in the end its findings were unassailable and unarguable, covering everything from parking facilities to the design of the cutlery; from the quality of the ingredients to the size of the portions and the way in which they were served.

Was the dish of classic origins? If so, had it been prepared in the right manner? Was the accompanying sauce too hot? Too cold? Too salty? Was it served separately? Was the waiter able
to describe the dish? If not, did he find out the answer quickly and accurately?

There was an equally large section devoted to the serving of wine. Did the waiter simply sniff the cork and pour it straight away, or did he allow you to taste it first? If it was a Beaujolais was it served slightly chilled? If it was an old wine did he offer to decant it? If so, did he do it at the table? Did he use a candle? Did he take it away to do it? If so, did he bring the empty bottle back to show? Did he bring the cork too? When he offered you some to taste was he really seeking your opinion or merely going through the motions?

The list seemed endless. In his wisdom, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval had provided for almost every eventuality. The one situation he hadn’t foreseen, was that of being incarcerated in an establishment where the sole form of nourishment appeared to be a glass of dirty water, and not even that much if the guest happened to arrive late.

After staring at it for something like a quarter of an hour, Monsieur Pamplemousse laid it down again. If
Le
Guide
was to enter the world of
Établissements
Thermaux
they would need a totally new form and a very truncated one at that.

One of his options disposed of, at least for the time being, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned his attention to the second item on the agenda. Taking a leaf out of
Le
Guide
’s book, or rather, borrowing from its report forms, he began analysing his findings to date, reducing everything to its simplest terms.

He tried another tack.

Had he been sent there for some deeper purpose than merely losing weight? Had someone heard of his impending visit and decided to take advantage of it? Without knowing the contents of the letter he couldn’t be absolutely sure, but deep down he knew the answer.

Once again, he felt tempted to telephone the Director and make a clean breast of things. Once again, he decided against the idea. It was a matter of pride. The Director would not be sympathetic. He would assume his ‘I find this difficult to grasp, Pamplemousse,’ voice:

‘Would you mind repeating that more slowly? You say Pommes Frites actually
ate
the letter? While you were asleep? A letter of the utmost importance! A letter from the highest authority!’

Then there would be the sarcastic tone: ‘You say all those who died recently were women? And they had unusually large
mollets
? Could it be, Pamplemousse, that you are suffering aberrations brought on by lack of food? I have heard this sometimes happens.’

This would be followed by incredulity: ‘What is this I hear? You have
not
been on a
régime
? You have been living on
saucisses
… and
saucissons
!’ There would be silences. Silences intermingled with splutterings. Perhaps even the sound of banging on the Director’s long-suffering desk. He could picture it all too clearly.

He stared at his list. In all conscience, it wasn’t much to go on, but at least it was a beginning.

Were the staff in general involved? He pondered the question. Starting from the top: Herr Schmuck – certainly, and therefore, presumably the aloof and detached Madame Schmuck. He wondered why she had so little to say for herself. And yet she had the air of being a power behind the throne. Doctor Furze? In all probability – a tentative ‘
oui
’. There had
been something odd about the chauffeur, but as for the rest of the staff he had met so far, ‘
non
’. He would have staked his reputation, for example, on Mrs. Cosgrove not being involved.

He found himself staring into space. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully and realising he needed a shave, he looked at his watch.
Sacré
bleu
! He would need to get a move on if he were to make himself look reasonably respectable in time for their
tête-à-tête.
Pommes Frites, too. If Pommes Frites was to be in a fit state to receive Mrs. Cosgrove he would need a good brush and some Vaseline rubbed on his nose; it was beginning to look dry after being cooped up indoors for so long. Mrs. Cosgrove – he still found it hard to think of her by her
prénom.

His thoughts coincided with a knock on the door. Mrs. Cosgrove was early.

Kissing him lightly on the cheek as she brushed past, she gave a quick glance round the room; first at Pommes Frites, watching her with a red and jaundiced eye from a position he’d firmly taken up in the centre of the rug; then at the furniture, much of which was still as it had been left after the search. Finally, she looked down at Monsieur Pamplemousse’s feet.

‘I hope I am not too early.’

‘Not at all.’ Wishing he’d remembered to put his shoes back on, he went to kiss her hand, then realised she was holding something behind her back.

‘I’ve brought the wine.’ As she placed an uncorked bottle and two glasses on the table, he took the opportunity of studying her more closely, on home ground as it were. She had obviously spent the time since they’d last met in a more productive manner than either he or Pommes Frites. Her blue dress had been exchanged for a more casual one in cream. Like her uniform jacket, it had a zip running down the front. He caught a different perfume too. It had a discreet understatement which left him wanting more. Her hair hung carelessly over her shoulders in a way that could only have been achieved through long and careful brushing.

Her hand trembled slightly as she began to pour the wine. He noticed, too, that she filled her own glass first and took a quick drink before attending to his. He wondered idly if she was still
sans
culottes.

‘
Merci
.’ He took it gratefully, conscious of a lingering touch from her fingers as they met his. Rotating the glass quickly and expertly, he swirled the liquid round until it touched the rim, then held it to his nose. The bouquet as it rose to greet him was full and fruity. He was about to hold it up to the light when he realised Mrs. Cosgrove was watching his every movement intently.

‘Do you know any more party tricks?’

‘Old habits die hard.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse bent down and held his glass near the floor so that Pommes Frites could share his pleasure. ‘It is a beautiful wine. I feel highly honoured. I only hope my
andouillette
stands comparison by its side. It will have a lot to live up to.’

‘Aristide?’ Mrs. Cosgrove sounded hesitant.

He glanced up at her. ‘
Oui
?’

‘I don’t know quite how to put this, but … it’s just that in England we have a saying – “two’s company, three’s a crowd”. What I really mean is, will
he
be watching?’

‘Pommes Frites? Watching?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter. What a strange question.

‘It is possible. It depends on his mood.’

‘All the time? Everything?’

‘Of course. He has a very sociable nature. He likes to join in things.’

‘Oh!’ Mrs. Cosgrove sat down in the chair. She seemed depressed by the news. ‘Oh, dear. I … I didn’t think you were like that. I mean …’

‘Don’t worry.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to sound as soothing as possible. ‘Despite his size he is really a very gentle dog. Normally he wouldn’t hurt a fly – not unless he is roused.’

‘Is he very easily … roused?’

‘Again, it depends. He has, how would you say? – a strong sense of what is right and what is wrong. If he feels he is being done out of what should be his, then he can get very roused. I would not like to stand in his way at such times. Then, of course, we always share things. If he feels left out then sometimes jealousy sets in.’

Mrs. Cosgrove seemed less than reassured by the reply. Having contemplated her glass for a moment or two she suddenly drained it and reached for the bottle.

‘Oh, well,
c’est
la
vie.
In for a penny, in for a pound. When in Rome do as the Romans do.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse tried without success to seek the meaning behind these seemingly unconnected remarks. Taken separately they made very little sense; strung together they defied analysis. He wondered if Mrs. Cosgrove was suffering some kind of mental disturbance. She was certainly having a bad attack of the ‘leg swingings’ he’d noticed earlier. Perhaps it was time to get on with the matter in hand. It would be a pity to let such good wine go unaccompanied. He took a firm grip of his stick.

‘
Excusez
moi
. I must go to the bathroom. We are wasting precious time.’

Unaccountably, Mrs. Cosgrove blushed. ‘It isn’t strictly necessary you know. To take precautions, I mean.’

‘Experience has taught me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that one can never be too careful. I shall not be long.’ Closing the bathroom door behind him, he bent down and peered inside Pommes Frites’ kennel. It was, as always, a model of neatness. The sausages he’d cast through the opening in great haste were now lying in a neat pile at the back. There was almost a military precision about the way they had been arranged, smallest at the front, largest at the rear.
Saucisse
de
Toulouse
lay beside
Saucisse
de
Campagne,
Saucisson-cervelas
snuggled up against
Saucisson
de
Bretagne,
but of
andouilles
and
andouillettes
there was not the slightest sign. Paradou must have decided that it was a case of
prudence
est
mère
de
sûreté,
and prudence being the better pan of valour, he had gone for the nearest.