Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation (8 page)

It was like that on the coast; weather changed rapidly and the bad was soon forgotten.

The beach area was filling up. There was no sign of either Doucette or Mrs Pickering. They must still be in Antibes. Mr Pickering, pipe in mouth, was standing in the water with his trousers rolled up, gazing back at the hotel. Todd was nowhere to be seen. Presumably he was busy exporting or importing whatever it was that passed through his hands to make a show of things. If, indeed, he even bothered to do that. Nor was there any sign of the Russians.

Pommes Frites went past looking pleased with himself. Even from a distance Monsieur Pamplemousse
could see his paws were covered in wet sand; rather as though he had been digging. His heart sank.

An unfamiliar muffled ringing sound took him back into the room. It was a moment or two before he realised it was coming from inside
Le Guide’
s case and was another of Monsieur Leclercq’s recent innovations – the mobile phone. That said, he detected the hand of Madame Grante in Accounts behind the move. She was always grumbling about the use of hotel telephones with their vast mark-up. Given the number of calls back to base the Inspectors normally made during the course of a year, she probably had a point.

Searching out the Nokia, he activated it.

‘There you are at last, Aristide.’ It was Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Enjoying what you photographers call f32 weather, I trust. Ah, how I envy you. No doubt you are making good use of the haze filter.’

‘It has been more f2 than f32,
Monsieur
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily. ‘As for the haze filter, I am afraid that and the spare lenses are all I have left.’

‘What are you saying, Pamplemousse?’ barked the Director. ‘Don’t tell me you left the camera body in Paris. I know this is meant to be a holiday, but staff working for
Le Guide
are expected to be on duty at all times; the contents of their issue case on hand
jour et nuit,
ready to cope with any emergency. There is no point in your having one otherwise.’

‘I’m afraid the camera was stolen,
Monsieur
.’

‘Stolen?’ repeated the Director. ‘From your room? You have reported the matter, of course.’

‘No,
Monsieur
. It wasn’t in the hotel at the time. I was attacked from behind while taking some pictures for the Staff Magazine.’

‘From behind? Did you manage to catch a glimpse of the miscreant?’

‘I would recognise him at once if ever we meet again,
Monsieur
.’ He forebore to say there had been two. It would only complicate the issue.

‘Excellent. I trust you have been in touch with the police. Photofit pictures can be made based on your description. I will get Veronique to check on the serial number of the camera.’

‘I can save your secretary the trouble,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Pommes Frites retrieved it for me.’

‘Good. Good.
Excellent
! What would you do without him? What would
we
do without him come to that? I hope it is still in working order?’

‘Unfortunately …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated, choosing his words with care. ‘I have no means of knowing. He ran off with it.’

‘Ran off with it?’ repeated the Director. ‘Did you not call him back?’

‘I was in no position to,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, hoping Monsieur Leclercq wouldn’t ask him why. ‘The thing is, he has hidden it somewhere.’

‘Hidden it? That is not possible. In any case, why would he do that?’

‘I’m sure he had his reasons,
Monsieur
. He probably felt he was acting for the best.’

‘As an ex-member of the Paris
Sûreté
, highly trained in sniffing things out, he should experience no difficulty in finding it again. You must order him to.’

‘It is not as easy as that,
Monsieur
. It will be against his nature. When it comes to hiding things, his lips are sealed. That, too, was part of his training.’

‘A very negative aspect, if you want my opinion,’ said the Director crossly. ‘If that is the situation, then you must do everything in your power to unseal them before someone else finds it.’

‘Cap d’Antibes covers a large area,
Monsieur
. It is full of nooks and crannies. He may even …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. ‘
Par exemple
, it is possible he may even have buried it in the sand.’

‘Buried it in the sand?’ While the Director appeared to be fighting the onset of a mild attack of apoplexy, Monsieur Pamplemousse seized the opportunity to adjust the volume of the earpiece in a downward direction. ‘What if the tide comes in before it is found?’

‘Fortunately,
Monsieur
, there is no worry on that score. As
Monsieur
will be aware the Medit …’

‘This is no time for complacency, Pamplemousse,’ boomed the Director. ‘The fact that the Mediterranean is tideless is small consolation. I shudder to think what effect prolonged exposure to salt water will have.’

‘With respect,
Monsieur
, Pommes Frites is only obeying his instincts.’

‘That, Pamplemousse, is not how Madame Grante will see it. She will not be pleased.’

‘Madame Grante has not been hit over the head …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stifled a desire to suggest that such things could be arranged. ‘Fortunately I happened to have some
boudin
under my hat and that softened the blow.’

There was a moment’s silence while the Director digested the latest piece of information. When he next spoke his tone was unusually mild.

‘Forgive me, Aristide. I had no idea it was that serious. It is probably a foolish question, but I must ask it all the same. Was there any particular reason why you were carrying a quantity of
boudin
inside your hat, other than for protection against possible blows about the head?’

‘There was a bad storm,
Monsieur
. I was keeping it dry for Pommes Frites.’

‘Ah, very sensible.’ The Director sounded relieved. ‘I have never partaken of a wet
boudin
, but I imagine it would be somewhat unpalatable. Not a pleasant experience. One would search in vain for a suitable recipe in
Larousse Gastronomique
.’

‘Not only that,
Monsieur
. I was fortunate enough to have a
Bâton de Berger aux noisettes
with me. It is something else Pommes Frites is partial to. My assailant did not make good his escape without first having felt its full weight behind him. In my days with the
Sûreté
I often made use of it when it came to eliciting information from those who had the
misfortune to be suffering a temporary loss of memory. The
noisettes
were particularly efficacious in restoring it. They added a certain body …’

‘I do not wish to know that,’ broke in the Director. ‘Nor, I imagine, would the manufacturers. “As used by the Paris
Sûreté
during their interrogations” is hardly the kind of endorsement they would wish to see appearing on their labels. Nor would the phrase “a sure cure for amnesia” do much for their sales figures.’

‘It sounds even worse in German …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt honour bound to defend his late employers. ‘In German it is called
Puur Vareknsworst Met Hazelnoten
. The other advantage was that you could collect coupons off the label and for two coupons plus 25 francs receive in return a disposable camera.’

‘I hope you are not suggesting that as a means of replacing the Leica,’ barked the Director. ‘I doubt if Madame Grante will see it that way.’

There was a pause, during which Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he detected the sound of fingers drumming.

‘I am beginning to feel, Pamplemousse,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq at long last, ‘that your time in the
Sûreté
– and this applies to both you and Pommes Frites – was not always well spent.

‘Gross misuse of
Bâtons de Berger.
Training dogs to withhold vital information. It is a wonder to me you both lasted as long as you did. Really, it is most disappointing. I can only suggest you fill in a P37B, “Loss of Property during the Hours of Duty” form,
whilst the unhappy incident is still fresh in your mind. Please let me have it back as soon as possible.’

‘
Oui, Monsieur
.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse settled for the soft soap approach. ‘I am already planning to send off a reel of film I took during the storm. I can put the form in with it.’

‘You took some snaps? Before the camera was stolen?’

‘
Oui, Monsieur
. It was one of the most spectacular displays of pyrotechnics I have ever witnessed. It was a case of seizing the opportunity while it lasted. Fortunately, having reloaded the camera with a fresh film before it was stolen, I still have the first cassette. I am hoping it contains something suitable for
L’Escargot
. If
Monsieur
should decide to go public, it is worth remembering the annual awards for the magazine cover of the year are coming up, and it could be worth entering. To win such a coveted award with the very first issue would be an enormous feather in our cap.’

It did the trick. Monsieur Leclercq’s explosions rarely lasted for long, and he was clearly excited at the thought.

‘This is excellent news, Aristide. There is no time to be lost. I will arrange for a courier service to pick it up from the hotel as soon as possible. If it reaches Nice airport in good time it could be put on a plane for Orly. Trigaux should have it for processing by late this afternoon. I will make sure he lets me have the results as soon as possible.’

‘Oui, Monsieur.’

‘And Aristide …’

‘Monsieur?’

‘In the meantime I will prepare the ground with Madame Grante. Perhaps a little bouquet of her favourite flowers marked “A Present from the Riviera” would not be out of place?’

‘As you wish,
Monsieur
.’

Knowing Madame Grante of old, he felt certain such a gesture would be singularly out of place, particularly if he tried to claim it on expenses. Her suspicions would be roused straight away, but he had no wish to disturb the note of tranquillity that terminated the conversation.

It wasn’t until after he had pressed the off key that he realised he had failed to mention anything about his lack of success in picking up the painting, still less his fears as to why that was. On the other hand, Monsieur Leclercq hadn’t brought the subject up either. Perhaps he had been feeling distracted too.

Feeling in need of a stiff drink, he opened the refrigerator door, studied the row of miniature bottles in the rack, and settled on a vodka; a double vodka with ice would be admirable. In the circumstances even Madame Grante couldn’t begrudge him a medicinal pick-me-up.

Settling himself down at a small table near the window, he opened up the laptop and powered it. It would take him all his time to marshal his report into some kind of logical order.

Putting off the evil moment, squaring his conscience with the excuse that it would help clear his mind, he set the computer up for a game of Free Cell. All the aces were along the top row, which in his experience meant there wasn’t a hope of getting it out, so he decided to make it the best out of four.

There was now no question in his mind – he had struck a run of bad luck in all directions. Ten minutes later, weary of all the warning pings and bells and in a worse mood than when he started, he idly switched into the Smart Capture mode, hoping that might do the trick by triggering off a few thoughts. It was the electronic equivalent of sharpening pencils.

Hearing the sound of a key being inserted into a lock behind him, Monsieur Pamplemousse rotated the lens and watched on the screen as the top half of the door slowly opened, then closed again. Reaching forward, he gently rotated the pod, zooming in at the same time until the head and shoulders of a man came into view. Whoever it was, he appeared to be watching him intently.

Mindful of a sophisticated version of the original Minitel service which provided an escape route for those who were caught watching the so-called ‘pink’ services (known as the ‘my wife is coming’ button, it replaced porn with a table of meaningless statistics), he returned to the games mode.

Bracing himself before the other had a chance to make the first move, Monsieur Pamplemousse leapt to his feet, pushing the chair aside at the same time,
and having closed the gap between the two of them in a couple of strides, gripped the intruder by his collar and tie.

‘Cochon …! Salud …! Maquereau …! Enfant de putain …! Débile mentale …! Imbécile …!’
Effectively punctuating each word by slamming his victim against the wall, it wasn’t until he found himself running short of expletives that he realised the man’s cheeks were glistening.

‘Please …’

‘Sapristi!’
Expecting to hear Russian rather than English, it took him by surprise. ‘I don’t know who you are or what you want,’ he said, loosening his grip, ‘but I never, ever want to see you again. And I warn you here and now, if I so much as catch a glimpse of you in the far distance I shall make sure you will regret it for the rest of your days. And when I have finished with you, others will begin. Now get out of here and don’t come back.’

With that, he flung the door open with his free hand and hurled the intruder into the corridor. As the man landed in a heap, he traced an imaginary line left to right across his forehead with the forefinger of his right hand, palm facing downwards, in the classic
J’en ai ras le bol
gesture.

‘I have had it up to here with you people!’

Pausing only to reverse the card on the door handle so that it read DO NOT DISTURB, he slammed the door shut behind him, and having made sure the security latch was firmly in place, returned to the table.

Breathing heavily after his exertions, Monsieur Pamplemousse flopped into the chair. It was always the same: bottle things up for too long and when the cork eventually popped under the pressure, all the pent-up frustrations came out with a rush …

He stared at his vodka glass. A moment ago it had been full. Now it was lying across the keyboard – empty! Upending it, a drop no larger than a budgerigar’s
larme
– certainly smaller than the man’s teardrops – clung suspended from the rim for a brief moment, then landed on the table beside him. Upending the laptop produced a similar result. A tiny smidgen of liquid trickled its way down the keyboard, winding a path in and out of the keys before joining the first drop.