Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (7 page)

Undoing his valise, he removed a smaller case, the one containing the emergency kit issued to all those who worked for
Le
Guide.
Designed to cover every eventuality in the minimum of space, it was a miracle of compactness; not a single cubic centimetre was wasted. Spare notebooks, maps, report forms and writing instruments were contained in the lid. Below that was a felt-lined tray for the Leica R4, two spare lenses – wide and narrow angle, a motor winder and various filters and other accessories. Below that again, other compartments contained a pair of Leitz Trinovid binoculars, a compass, map magnifier, water purifying tablets (Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped several into his pocket, they might come in useful later) and a book containing emergency telephone numbers. Last but not least, in the very bottom of the case there reposed a funnel, a small butane-operated folding stove, a collapsible pan and a box of storm-proof matches.

In all his years with
Le
Guide
he’d never had occasion to use the last three items. Nor, for that matter, had any of his colleagues, as far as he knew, apart from Glandière, who covered the Savoie region and sometimes disappeared for weeks at a time.

Now he blessed the man who had designed it. A man of foresight, a leader among men. He turned and looked down as something long and sinewy began slapping the side of his leg.

‘Pommes Frites!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are
très,
très
méchant.
’ But the tone of his voice gave lie to the words, and Pommes Frites’ tail began to wag even faster as he followed his master into the bathroom in search of some water.

Quite frankly, in order to save time, he would have been perfectly happy to dine on a smoked or dried sausage; a
Saucisson
de
Lyon,
for example, or perhaps one from
Arles,
even a raw sausage or two, but if his master intended cooking them first, then so be it.

The stove alight and the water beginning to show signs of movement, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned to the difficult task of deciding on an order of priorities. With such a wealth of sausages at his disposal, the choice would not be easy. As a
member of several distinguished societies – the A.A.A.A.A., the
Association
Amicale
des
Amateurs
d’Andouille
Authenti
que,
La
Confrérie
des
Chevaliers
du
Goûte-Andouille,
whose energies were directed towards the perfection of the
andouil
lette,
not to mention the
Confrérie
des
Chevaliers
du
Goûte-
Boudin,
who were very protective about that other classic of French
cuisine,
and the
Frères
du
Boudin
Noir
et
Blanc,
his loyalties were divided.

In the end, much to Pommes Frites’ approval, he decided on a representative selection. One by one,
Andouillette, Saucisse de Toulouse, Saucisse d’Alsace-Lorraine, Saucisse de Campagne,
and
Boudins
Noirs
et
Blancs
disappeared into the bubbling water until the pan could hold no more.

Monsieur Pamplemousse thought the
boudins
looked particularly mouth-watering. He’d once taken part in the annual competition at Manziat to see who could eat the most – the winner had eaten over a metre at one sitting. The way he was feeling at that moment, that year’s champion would have been an also-ran, a non-starter.

Reaching into the bag again, he took out a fork and plunged it into the bubbling pan. The
boudin
was beyond his wildest expectations; it would have more than upheld a reputation which stretched back into history as far as Homer. Made to the classic formula of fresh pork fat, chopped onion, salt, freshly ground pepper and spices, pig’s blood and cream, it positively melted in the mouth, like a soft ice-cream on a summer’s day.

Wiping the juice from his hands lest they soil the pages, he reached for his notebook. The panful in front of him had barely scratched the surface of the vast quantity still left on the table. It would be a useful exercise to start a study of the subject. Already he could see another article in the staff magazine.
Saucisses
et
Saucissons
–
A
Comparative
Study
in
Depth
by A. Pamplemousse. Perhaps, looking at the pile in front of him, with the words ‘to be continued’ at the end. The editor would be pleased.

At his feet, Pommes Frites gave a sigh of contentment. Oblivious to the subtle difference between an
andouillette
with its quota of chitterlings and tripe, and an
andouille
with its addition of pork meat, he’d had two of each and enjoyed them both. Now he was looking forward to rounding things off with
a
boudin
or two followed by a nap. It had been a long and tiring day; a day of ups and downs, and a good nap wouldn’t come at all amiss.

It was a thought which appealed to Monsieur Pamplemousse too, and shortly afterwards, having taken the precaution of inflating Pommes Frites’ kennel and placing it in the bathroom lest he get any ideas about sharing the bed, he started to get undressed. Soon, they were both in the land of dreams.

Monsieur Pamplemousse slept late into the following morning. When he finally woke, it was to the sound of engines revving, the metallic slamming of car doors, dogs barking, and raised voices.

He sat up and looked at his watch. Ten o’clock!
Merde
! Such a thing hadn’t happened in years. Breakfast would have been over and done with hours ago. Then he realised where he was. Breakfast was of academic importance.

Getting out of bed, he crossed to the window and drew the curtains. In the driveway near the main entrance a Police van was parked alongside the car in which he had arrived. A solitary
gendarme
occupied the passenger seat, otherwise all was quiet. The view was away from the Pyrénées, southward towards the Massif du Canigou and its sacred mountain. Château Morgue was even higher than he’d expected; above the tree line. The surroundings looked as still and unspoiled as they must have been in the days when the Troubadours roamed the area crying ‘
oc
’ instead of ‘
oui
.’

He opened the door to the corridor and peered out. That, too, was deserted. Outside several of the rooms reposed a tray with a solitary empty glass. The exit door at the far end was ajar, as it must have been all night. He shivered. No wonder it felt cold. Seeing it reminded him that Pommes Frites would probably be wanting to obey the call of nature. Having seen him safely on his way, he turned his attention to the more immediate matter of running a bath. Once again he had cause to bless the man who had designed the survival kit. In a special hole let into the side of the case he found a multi-purpose waste plug. Nothing had been forgotten.

As he lay back in the bath he contemplated his changed fortunes. It was certainly a case of one law for the rich and another for the less affluent. Gone were all the expensive unguents and lotions of the previous bathroom. The only aids provided for those who wished to cleanse themselves were a small bar of soap bearing the name of one of the giant combines, and a plastic shower cap. Perhaps not many inmates bothered to ask Doctor Furze for a plug. He could hardly blame them.

The disappearance of the letter was a problem and no mistake. He could hardly blame Pommes Frites, who had doubtless taken his cue from watching his master consume a corner of the envelope. All the same, it wouldn’t be very easy to explain. It would be bad enough in writing, but harder still when it came to the interview which would undoubtedly follow. He could picture the looks he would get and how his simple statement – ‘Pommes Frites ate it’ would be repeated in tones of utter disbelief, followed by stony silence. On the other hand, saying he’d lost it wouldn’t go down too well either.

For a moment or two he toyed with the idea of ’phoning the Director, but then he dismissed the thought. The Director was obviously as much in the dark as he was. He would get no help from that quarter, and it would only bring closer the moment he was trying to put off. Far better to play things by ear for the time being. Let matters take their course.

His musings were broken into at that moment by a double click from the outside door, heralding Pommes Frites’ return from his morning stroll. Pommes Frites was good at opening doors. It was a trick he’d learned on a training course when he’d first joined the Paris Police. He was less good at closing them again, although in this instance politeness, or discretion, had obviously won the day.

A head appeared round the corner of the bathroom door. Its owner was wearing a distinctly thoughtful expression, but by then Monsieur Pamplemousse was much too busy drying himself to notice.

A leisurely shave and it was time for breakfast. Soon
Saucisses
Viennoises
, that heavenly mixture of pork, veal, fillet
steak and coriander, were bubbling away on the stove. He leaned over as one of them rose to the surface, and pricked it with a needle to prevent it bursting.

While he was waiting for them to finish cooking he cut some slices from a
Saucisson
de
Bourgogne.
The slight tang of the kirsch flavouring would act as an excellent appetiser. Instinctively he made a note about the
saucisson
in his book. It was the correct length – forty-five cm – and had been well dried – in his judgement, six months at the very least. He gave it full marks, as did Pommes Frites from the speed with which it disappeared. The only unsatisfactory aspect was the lack of bread. The smell of freshly-baked bread suddenly wafted into his mind. Back home the second baking at the
boulangerie
in the rue Marcadet would be just about ready. Nevertheless, given the circumstances, he couldn’t grumble. It had been a more than satisfactory start to the day. Apart from orange juice and coffee, he doubted if even Ananas had fared better.

Washing-up completed, the emergency bag securely locked and packed away, he wrapped the remaining sausages in his overcoat and stowed them away at the back of the cupboard.

Since Château Morgue obviously didn’t believe in their patients enjoying the luxury of having locks on their doors – probably in case any of them shut themselves in and lacked the strength to get out again – he hung the
OCCUPÉ
notice on the outside handle for safety. One couldn’t be too careful.

Shortly afterwards, holding onto Pommes Frites’ harness with his left hand and grasping the white stick with his right, he set off, tapping his way along the corridor away from the
SORTIE DE SECOURS
towards what an arrow on the wall referred to as the
CENTRE D’ÉTABLISSEMENT THERMAL (TOUTES
DIREC
TIONS
). They had dilly-dallied long enough. It was time to take the bull by the horns and make their entry into the world of
La
Cure.

The signs on the doors of the adjoining building made gloomy reading. Everything from the coccyx to the pharynx seemed to be catered for. There was hardly a part of the body which didn’t have its name written up in large capital letters.
LES ECZÉMAS
embraced
LES ACNÉS
, and the two jostled for pride of place alongside
LES ULCÈRES
. Parts of the body he hadn’t
dreamed existed were displayed in the form of illuminated X-rays, looking more like sliced portions of
andouillette
than anything remotely human. By the time he reached the end of the corridor a strange feeling of itchiness on his skin had been replaced by a dull pain in his stomach. He wasn’t sure whether it was a surfeit of sausages or merely psychosomatic, but whichever it was it quickly transmitted itself to Pommes Frites who stopped scratching himself in favour of looking for a possible exit door.

Monsieur Pamplemousse decided that impurities of the skin and intestinal disorders were not high on his list of priorities that day. Far better to get adjusted to his new surroundings with the help of something less exotic.

Following a sign marked
AUTRES DIRECTIONS
, he turned a corner and spied a door marked
OBÉSITÉ
. His entry triggered off a flurry of squeals and indignant shrieks as a plethora of female bodies scattered in all directions, like over-fat mice at harvest time.

Monsieur Pamplemousse focused his attention on the nearest and undeniably most nubile of the forms. He touched his forelock with the end of his white stick.

‘
Pardon,
Monsieur
,’ he exclaimed. ‘
Est-ce
la
bibliothèque
?’

A giggle of relief went round the room. Towels were released and fell to the ground unheeded, their owners breathing sighs of relief as they relaxed again.

It gave Monsieur Pamplemousse a chance to make a closer study of the scene. Like a small boy let loose in an ice-cream parlour, he sampled a chocolate-nut sundae here, a banana split there, discarding a half-eaten Knickerbocker Glory to the right of him in favour of a pecan and hot fudge confection to his left, while yet leaving room for manoeuvre in case he had another change of mina and dipped into a tutti-frutti special. The woman he’d spoken to came towards him.

‘I think you have made a mistake.’

Essaying a half-hearted attempt at sounding confused, Monsieur Pamplemousse stammered his apologies as she turned him round and gently but firmly pushed him back out through the door. He poked his head back inside for one last, lingering look. From the rear she was even more desirable. ‘A thousand apologies,
Monsieur
,’ he called.

Monsieur Pamplemousse went on his way with a lighter step. Life had suddenly taken on a new dimension. Quick thinking sometimes brought unexpected rewards. Saying he’d been looking for the library had been a mistake, but in the general excitement no one seemed to have noticed. There was no doubt about it, his ‘affliction’ had its compensations.

Further along the corridor he came across another door marked
GYMNASE
. Deciding that violent exercise was not what he was most in need of at that moment, he was about to resume his perambulations when he heard a commotion coming from inside the room. It was followed almost immediately by the sound of an alarm bell ringing somewhere in the distance. Under the pretext of trying to get his bearings, he remained where he was and almost immediately his patience was rewarded. Two men in porter’s uniform came hurrying along the corridor pushing a wheeled stretcher. With scarcely a glance in his direction they opened the door to the gymnasium and disappeared inside, closing it behind them.

Intrigued, he hung around trying to decide whether or not he should follow them, when the matter was decided for him. The door opened and they emerged, moving rather more slowly than they had when they arrived, for the very simple reason that the stretcher now bore the unmistakable shape of a body covered in a white sheet.

As the men carefully manoeuvred the trolley through the doorway and into the corridor they were followed by a gaggle of white-faced women clad in leotards. Clearly all were in a state of shock as they squeezed their way past, some averting their gaze, others crossing themselves as they paid their last respects.

In the confusion, Monsieur Pamplemousse groped his way forward and managed to make sufficient contact with the sheet to pull it a little to one side. He found himself looking down at the face of an elderly woman. She looked ominously still, her eyes dark green and lifeless against the white of her skin. There was something vaguely familiar about her. But before he had time to do anything more than record the fact, Herr Schmuck appeared in the doorway.

He seemed slightly thrown off balance by the encounter.
Once again Monsieur Pamplemousse was thankful for the variable density dark glasses. The lenses had adjusted to the harsh overhead fluorescent lights of the corridor, affording him a better opportunity to study the professor than he’d had the night before. Herr Schmuck looked a good deal older than he’d thought. His skin had the kind of waxy sheen, like tightly stretched parchment, common to the very old. He was also considerably less in command of the situation than he had been on the occasion of their last meeting. Once again, there was a faint smell of grease paint.

Taking advantage of the momentary pause, Monsieur Pamplemousse tapped the floor impatiently with his stick. ‘Will someone please tell me what is going on? I do not understand. Has there been an accident?’

As he spoke he reached over towards the motionless figure on the stretcher. Almost as though he was anticipating the move, Herr Schmuck beat him to it. In a single movement he closed the woman’s eyelids and pulled the sheet back over her face, but not before Pommes Frites managed to give it a quick lick. He seemed somewhat surprised by the result, rather as though it had left a nasty taste.

Herr Schmuck signalled the two men to carry on. ‘My apologies for this unfortunate encounter. There is no cause for alarm. It happens from time to time. Normally we try to carry out these unpleasant tasks as discreetly as possible, but alas …’ He gave a shrug as he hurried after the others.

Monsieur Pamplemousse watched the progress of the stretcher party along the corridor, one man pushing, Herr Schmuck and the other man following on behind. Speed seemed to be the order of the day. So much so, as they went to turn a corner at the end they narrowly missed colliding with Doctor Furze who was coming the other way. His inevitable clip-board went flying and while he bent down to pick it up Herr Schmuck paused in order to exchange a few words.

Monsieur Pamplemousse was left in no doubt as to the subject of the conversation. Several times they turned and looked in his direction and at one point Herr Schmuck said something which clearly caused a certain amount of ribald amusement amongst the others.

Doctor Furze nodded, beckoned to one of the two attendants to follow him, and came hurrying down towards the gymnasium. Monsieur Pamplemousse turned to go on his way, but he had left it too late. Before he had time to take more than a few steps the other two came up on either side of him and he felt his arms being grasped gently but firmly. He tried to free himself, but the grip tightened.

‘Ah, Monsieur Pamplemousse. I am pleased to see we have begun our treatment. That is good.’ Doctor Furze’s voice had unpleasant overtones.

‘Merely a preliminary survey. A voyage of exploration. Pommes Frites and I are getting our bearings.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to conceal a growing uneasiness by making light of the matter. ‘Or rather, Pommes Frites is getting
his
bearings. As ever, I merely follow on behind.’

‘Then it is as well we came along.’ Doctor Furze made a pretence of consulting his clip-board. ‘You are down for a work-out in the gymnasium this morning. A little toning-up of the muscles is indicated before you start your course. We have machinery for such things.’ He made it sound like ‘We have ways of making you talk.’

‘It is, I am afraid, the moment when you and Pommes Frites will have to part company for a while. As you know,
chiens
are
interdits
at Château Morgue. An exception was made in your case, but there are certain areas where we cannot bend the rules. Others would complain.’