Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (10 page)

‘I say, that’s very clever.’ Mrs. Cosgrove ran something black and lacy through her fingers, then discarded it.

Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he should confess that Voltaire probably thought so too when he first coined the remark, then thought better of it. He had other matters on his mind; matters not entirely unconnected with his hostess’ present behaviour.

Mrs. Cosgrove’s liking for frills obviously extended beyond the decor of her room. One by one, undergarments made of silk, chiffon and nylon, in all possible shades of colour from
lavender blue to the deepest of black, beribboned and lace-edged, came under her scrutiny and were rejected for one reason or another.

Monsieur Pamplemousse sat bemused. He wondered what the Director would have thought had he been there to see him. It was the kind of fashion show one read about in glossy magazines, but never in his wildest dreams had he pictured being present – in the very front row as it were – at such a display; a display which said as much about the workings of Mrs. Cosgrove’s mind as it did about the whims and mores of the world of fashion.

Having narrowed the choice down to two alternatives, and having weighed the relative merits of loose-layered black against whiteness and tightness and decided in favour of the latter, she sat on a stool, suspender-belt in place, and slowly and lingeringly drew on a pair of white stockings.

As she stepped into the briefest and flimsiest pair of matching
culottes,
Monsieur Pamplemousse reached automatically for yet another cake and found to his horror that there were only two left. He also noted a change of mind on Mrs. Cosgrove’s part. The wearing of
culottes
was patently not the order of the day; an unnecessary embellishment. She had stepped out of them again.

‘Poor Aristide.’ Mrs. Cosgrove’s voice cut across his thoughts. ‘I’ve been neglecting you.’

The blue of her dress matched the rest of the furnishings. A transformation had taken place. She could have been dressed for afternoon tea on a lawn in England. The knowledge he possessed produced a strange feeling of intimacy. Paradoxically, to take advantage of it, even to tell someone else, would seem like an act of betrayal.

‘
Ça
ne
fait
rien.
’ He brushed aside her apologies as he adjusted to the change. ‘I have been very happy with my thoughts. And with your delicious
pâtisseries
too, I must confess.’

‘That’s good.’ She reached into a handbag and took out a lipstick. ‘You must have been starving. What with being on the
régime
and all that excitement this morning.’

‘Excitement?’ The morning seemed an age away.

‘That trouble in the lecture hall. I see she’s been whipped
away already. You didn’t happen to notice her legs, did you?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head, wondering what snippet of information he was about to receive next.

‘I bet they were huge compared with the rest of her body. They’ve all had huge calves – like a ballet dancer’s. One of the attendants told me.

‘If you ask me, old Schmuck’s after their money. Either that, or he’s turning them into meat pies or sausages or something.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly choked on the remains of his cake. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Oh, I was only joking. That would be a bit too much like Sweeney Todd. It’s only that they seem to run a
charcuterie
business on the side. Funny combination really.’ Satisfied with the state of her face, Mrs. Cosgrove turned away from the dressing-table mirror. ‘How about a cup of tea? Or a Beaumes de Venise?’

It didn’t take him long to decide. There was really no choice. Mrs. Cosgrove’s revelations had triggered off an urgent need for alcohol. He was also aware of a change in the atmosphere. If he wasn’t careful they would be into the area of making polite conversation.

Mrs. Cosgrove obviously felt it too as she began searching amongst a collection of cassettes in a case beside her bed. A moment later, as she went to the cupboard, the strains of ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ filled the room. Pommes Frites gave a deep sigh.

‘I’m sorry it isn’t chilled. If I’d thought, I could have stood it outside on the window-sill. The thing is, in England we drink it at the end of a meal. Whereas in France …’

‘In France it is drunk more as an
apéritif
, something to stimulate the appetite.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to leap the first hurdle. ‘Unlike most other wines it is aged in concrete, not wood. It helps to retain the special flavour.’

The glass was large, the helping generous. He raised it to his nose; the perfume had opulence. He glanced at the label. It was a Domaine de Durban from Jacques Leydier.

As he felt the smooth lusciousness of the golden-amber liquid at the back of his throat he began to feel better again.
He drank it rather too quickly, aware that Mrs. Cosgrove was only sipping hers as she gazed at him thoughtfully over the top of her glass. He was also aware once again of the swinging leg syndrome. He wondered what she was thinking. How hard it was to read a woman’s mind. Perhaps she was waiting for him to make the first move? He reached out a hand.

Mrs. Cosgrove pushed the plate of cakes towards him. ‘Do finish them up.’

‘
Non,
merci.
It is for you.’

Pommes Frites cast a reproachful look in his direction as Mrs. Cosgrove took him at his word. Monsieur Pamplemousse pretended not to notice. In many ways he envied Pommes Frites his simple approach to life. He would have summed up the situation in a trice. Not for him the soft music, nor the Beaumes de Venise; suspender belts he would have regarded as an unnecessary hazard – something he might catch his claws in. If he saw what he fancied, that was it. The worst that could happen was a bucket of cold water – like that time in the rue Ordener.

Mrs. Cosgrove ran her tongue round the edge of the last remaining
mille-feuille.
She made it look like the dress rehearsal for some more lascivious activity to come. He felt his pulse quicken as she sank her teeth slowly into the pastry.

‘Scrumptious!’

Monsieur Pamplemousse waved his hand non-committally through the air. He was not familiar with the word. ‘Pastry is like mayonnaise. It is largely a matter of temperature. It needs a marble slab chilled with ice, the best butter, but most of all it is a question of
tour
de
main,
the “feeling in the hands”. It is something you either have or you do not have. The best chefs always do it in the early morning.’

‘George used to like doing it in the early morning,’ said Mrs. Cosgrove sadly.

‘He is a chef?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to picture Mrs. Cosgrove’s husband in the kitchen. It wasn’t easy. He seemed inseparable from his trench-coat.

Once again, for some reason, the spell seemed to be broken. Perhaps it was his own fault this time for getting involved in
culinary matters. As if to underline the fact there was a click from the direction of the bedside cabinet and the tape came to an end. It must have been set at an appropriate spot, for it had only lasted the length of the song. In the silence that followed he heard a car door banging somewhere outside. Mrs. Cosgrove crossed to the window and parted the curtains slightly.

‘It’s the Police. They are back. Apparently there was a break-in during the night. Someone got into the kitchens and stole a lot of food. I heard on the grapevine that the Police think it was an inside job and they’re planning to make a room to room search.’

She let the curtain fall into place and then turned back into the room. ‘I say, are you
really
all right? You’re looking quite pale.’

‘It is nothing.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse struggled to his feet and reached for Pommes Frites’ harness. ‘I think perhaps I will go and lie down for a while.’

‘You are welcome to stay here.’ Mrs. Cosgrove tried hard to keep the disappointment from her voice.

‘
Merci.
’ Monsieur Pamplemousse reached out for her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. ‘It is better that I return to my own room. Perhaps … perhaps you would like to visit me later when it is quiet?’ He lowered his voice. ‘I will let you sample my
andouillette.
En
suite,
we can drink the wine you have so kindly put out. If you open it now it will give it time to breathe.’

‘Would
you
like that?’ As she spoke he felt her hand tighten on his.

‘It would give me very great pleasure,’ he said simply.

She led him to the door and planted the lightest of kisses on his right cheek. It was like the touch of a
papillon
’s wings.

‘
Au
revoir,
Aristide. Until … later.’

‘
Au
revoir
… Anne.’ He found it hard to make the change-over to her Christian name.

Pommes Frites gave an impatient tug and a moment later they were on their way. Once round the corner leading to the adjoining block Monsieur Pamplemousse quickened his pace. There was not a moment to be lost.

Sensing that all was not well, Pommes Frites entered into the spirit of things and by the time they reached their own corridor there was no holding him. As it was, they reached the safety of their room only just in time. As Monsieur Pamplemousse closed the door behind them he heard voices coming from the next room; voices coupled with the opening and closing of cupboard doors.

Merde
! There wasn’t a second to lose. By the sound of it they were making a thorough job of things.

Jamming his stick under the door handle, he rushed to his own cupboard, removed the parcel of sausages from his coat and tipped them out on to the table. As he looked around the room his heart sank. He would have done better to have made a clean breast of things with Mrs. Cosgrove and left them with her for safe keeping. It was too late now.

Grabbing a knife, he sliced a
Saucisson
de
Bourgogne
in half and placed the two pieces in a pair of socks. They would do service as a draught excluder along the bottom of the door. He tried slipping some
Saucisses
de
Bordeaux
into the hem of the curtains, but in his haste they stuck halfway. Ever anxious to help, Pommes Frites pulled them out again. Then, flushed with success, he made a dive for one of the socks.

In desperation, as he heard
au
revoirs
and apologies being voiced in the corridor outside, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the remaining sausages and hurled them through the opening of Pommes Frites’ kennel. Hardly able to believe his good fortune, Pommes Frites bounded in after them.

‘
Non
!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse rapped out the single word of command in a voice which left no room for argument. ‘
Asseyez-vous
.
Gardez
les
saucissons
!’

He was tempted to add ‘
gardez
les
andouillettes
avec
un
soin
particulier
’, but he decided against it. At such moments beggars could hardly be choosers and Pommes Frites looked confused enough already. As his jaw dropped open with surprise at his master’s sudden change of mood, a half-eaten
boudin
fell out. Honesty, precision and simplicity of phrasing were necessary in issuing orders of the day, and Monsieur Pamplemousse knew that given those three factors his wishes would be respected without question.

Covering the front of Pommes Frites’ kennel with a large
towel, he closed the bathroom door, hurriedly pushed the socks back into position under the main door, then sank back into his chair. As he did so there was a peremptory knock from outside.

Adjusting his glasses, Monsieur Pamplemousse focused his gaze on a point somewhere beyond the Hautes Pyrénées and prepared himself for the worst.

‘
Entrez
,
s’il
vous
plaît.
’ Much to his surprise, his voice sounded almost normal.

There was a scuffling noise outside the door, followed by a muttered imprecation from the person on the other side, then another knock, this time even louder and more peremptory than the first.

‘
Ouvrez
la
porte,
s’il
vous
plaît
.’ It was a command rather than a request.

Monsieur Pamplemousse jumped to his feet.
Sapristi
! He had forgotten the stick. The door had been pushed with such force it had momentarily risen sufficiently to trap one of the socks containing the
Saucisson
de
Bourgogne
when it came down again. Already meat was showing through a weak patch in the toe, threatening to burst through the seams at any moment. He should have used a
Mortadella,
it would have been harder.

‘
Un
moment
!’ The stick bent as he used it as a lever in order to force the door up. There was an ominous crack. A second later the socks were free. Two more and the window was open. He hurled the offending items out into the night. Almost immediately there was a loud bark followed by the sound of snarling as they landed near some unseen target. The Police must have brought their dogs with them. Mercifully they had not yet penetrated the building.

Closing the window, he took advantage of the momentary lull to put his own weight against the door, removed his stick, and then stood back waiting for the storm to break.

The door opened and four people entered the room. Doctor Furze, a Police Inspector and two
gendarmes.
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at them in surprise. From the rumpus outside he’d expected a whole army.

Doctor Furze eyed him suspiciously. ‘Do you make a habit of barricading your door in this manner?’ he demanded. ‘The locking of doors is strictly forbidden at Château Morgue.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse decided that attack was the best form of defence. ‘When I feel threatened, yes. I have heard there have been, shall we say, “goings-on” during the night. I was merely taking precautions to safeguard my person. Someone in my position cannot be too careful.

‘Anyway, who are you and what do you want? I recognise your voice from last night, but who are the others?’

‘Furze here.’ Raising his voice in the way that people sometimes do when talking to the blind, as if they must suffer from deafness as well, the Doctor made it sound like a disease. ‘The others are Inspector Chambard and his two assistants.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. From his looks he judged Inspector Chambard to be from the Midi or the Rhône Valley; he had a short, stocky figure and a face weatherbeaten by years of exposure to the Mistral. Not someone to fool around with – his eyes were too shrewd.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Doctor Furze gripped his clip-board a trifle nervously. ‘As you so rightly say, there was a little unpleasantness during the night.’

‘An important package has been stolen,’ Inspector Chambard cut in. ‘It is believed that the person responsible may well be a resident of the Château. In the circumstances we feel that for the sake of peace all round there will be no objection if we make a search of the entire building.’

‘Who knows where or when the thief may strike again?’ agreed Doctor Furze. ‘It is a necessary precaution.’

‘And if I object?’

‘Then we cannot, for the moment, insist.’ Inspector Chambard’s remark was accompanied by a shrug which said it all. Refuse and our suspicions will be aroused. And if our suspicions are aroused then we will be back with the necessary authority within the hour. Take it or leave it. There was a time when he would have reacted in exactly the same way.

‘Please.’ His gesture embraced the whole room. Somewhere outside a dog began to choke noisily. In a flash the window was open again and Inspector Chambard disappeared through it. He returned after a moment, climbing over the sill with an agility surprising for one of his bulk. He held up the half-eaten remains of something green and woollen.

‘It appears to be a sock.’

‘Tccchk!’ Doctor Furze looked at it impatiently. ‘Is that one of yours,
Monsieur
? If so, I have to tell you that the hanging of laundry outside the window is –’

‘I know. It is strictly forbidden. Many things seem to be strictly forbidden at Château Morgue.’

Ignoring the interruption, Doctor Furze looked round the room. ‘You have a dog.’

‘Pommes Frites. He is asleep. Or rather, he is trying to sleep.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse wished he’d thought to put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice on the bathroom door. ‘I take it that is not against the rules?’

‘There is also,’ continued Doctor Furze, ‘a list on your door of various activities for the day. You are required to report to the Doctor to whom you have been assigned for an analysis of the treatment you require. That was not done. May I ask why?’

‘You may,’ thundered Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You may indeed. I did not carry out the instructions for the very simple reason that I am unable to see them; a fact which seems to have totally escaped both you and your staff. I find your attitude totally intolerable. No one, I repeat, no one has been to see me since the evening I arrived. For all you know I might have starved to death.’

He groped for the back of the chair. Already he was beginning to feel a little better; more in command of the situation.

Doctor Furze was the first to speak following his outburst.

‘There is a cake crumb stuck to your moustache,’ he said coldly. ‘Also, there is a lump of something white adhering to your left ear. I trust it is shaving cream and not
crème
pâtissière.
In which case, the patch of red on your right cheek will be blood where you cut yourself shaving rather than what it looks like – a lump of
confiture
.’

Instinctively Monsieur Pamplemousse reached up to his face, but before he had time to reply he felt himself being propelled towards the bathroom as Doctor Furze pressed home his temporary advantage.

‘We do not appear to have had our daily weight check.’

‘I am
not
getting undressed again,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Is there no privacy in this establishment? It is bad enough not being able to lock one’s door without having to expose oneself to all and sundry.’

‘There is no need. All that is necessary is to remove your shoes. I will make the appropriate allowance.’ He paused and gave a sniff. ‘For one who has been without food for over twenty-four hours, your breath is remarkably sweet. It is one of the first things one notices about people who are taking the
régime
– the breath.’

He helped Monsieur Pamplemousse onto the scales. ‘Ah, it is as I suspected.’ His voice grew even harder and colder as he glanced at the dial and then compared the figure with that on a sheet of paper attached to his clip-board. ‘At the very minimum your weight has increased by over two kilos since yesterday evening.’

Leaving Monsieur Pamplemousse to his fate, he went back into the other room where Inspector Chambard and the two
gendarmes
were engaged in an inch by inch search of the furniture.

‘You need look no further, Inspector. I suggest you arrest this man immediately.’

‘With respect,
Monsieur
, you must allow me to be the best judge of that.’ Inspector Chambard sounded piqued. ‘We are not looking for someone who has over-indulged in
pâtisseries.
If that were the case then in an establishment such as this we would have cause to make many arrests were it a criminal matter. Lack of food makes people desperate. I have heard tales of excursions into the village after dark. If old Pertus who runs the
boulangerie
relied on sales to the local inhabitants for his living he would not be in a position to buy himself a new Citroën every year. No,
Monsieur
, we are looking for someone who stole a large quantity of
charcuterie
, not just sufficient to put on two kilos of weight overnight, but twenty kilos. That is a lot of
charcuterie
.’

Twenty kilos! Monsieur Pamplemousse barely suppressed a whistle as he came out of the bathroom to join the others. No wonder the sausages had looked like a small mountain when he had first tipped them out.

His heart sank as there was a muffled exclamation from somewhere behind him. Pommes Frites’ hideaway must have been discovered.

Pushing him to one side, the second
gendarme
went in search of his colleague. He heard their lowered voices coming from the bathroom.

‘
Regardez
!’

‘
Merde
!’

The appositeness of the remark triggered off a series of giggles. He could picture the nudges that went with it.

‘
C’est
formidable
!’

‘
Oui.
Très,
très
formidable
!’ There was a stream of admiring whistles and ‘poufs’.

‘
Qu’est-ce
que
c’est
?’ Unable to stand the suspense a moment longer, Inspector Chambard flung open the door of the bathroom.

‘
Sacré
bleu
!
Nom
d’un
nom
!’ His endorsement of their findings was short, sharp and positive. It was also accompanied by a series of warning growls. Pommes Frites enjoyed a game as much as the next dog, but he was beginning to get a bit restive with the present one.

Monsieur Pamplemousse turned. All three policemen were on their hands and knees in front of the kennel, eyeing the contents with disbelief and its occupant with a certain amount of reserve. One of the
gendarmes,
clearly under a misapprehension as to the nature of his find, held a handkerchief to his nose as he poked at a
boudin
lying on the floor near the entrance with his truncheon. He jumped back as a paw shot out. ‘
Merde
!’

‘What did I tell you?’ Doctor Furze bustled into the bathroom, anxious to declare the matter closed. For some reason best known to himself, he seemed to view the finding of the sausages as a mixed blessing, one which, while confirming his previous accusation, held other connotations of a less desirable nature.

Inspector Chambard rose from his knees and came out of
the bathroom. Ignoring the doctor, he addressed himself to Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Will you call off your dog,
Monsieur
?’

‘May I ask why? He is doing no harm; merely protecting his temporary home.’

‘I wish to search it. I may need the contents as evidence. It will be sent for analysis.’

‘Not without a warrant,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly.

Inspector Chambard gave him a long, hard stare, then shrugged. ‘In that case …’ he turned back to the bathroom. ‘Paradou, since you appear to be an expert on matters to do with
le
petit
coin
, I suggest you put that knowledge to some purpose. Get to work.’

‘But, Chief …’

‘Wrap a towel round your arm. You know the drill.’

Paradou looked around for his colleague, but he had already beaten a hasty retreat and was busy looking through the pile of magazines on the table. If he was hoping for sympathy, he was disappointed.

‘Chief, come and have a look at this.’ As Inspector Chambard half closed the bathroom door, the other
gendarme
held up a photograph. Monsieur Pamplemousse stifled a curse. It was a diversion, but not a welcome one. He should have locked it away in his case.

‘Hey, Paradou, come here.’ The
gendarme
was having difficulty in hiding his excitement.

Paradou, his arm partly swathed in a towel, came out of the bathroom with alacrity. He stared at the picture. ‘
Tante
Hyacinthe
!’

Slowly rotating the picture as he held it up to the light, he reeled off more names. ‘That one is Clothilde and there is Desirée – at least, I think it is Desirée, and that must be little Josephine and …’ He peered at the head in the centre, then at Monsieur Pamplemousse, comparing the two to make sure he’d seen aright.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve been with that lot?’

‘Who? Where? What are we talking about?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was becoming increasingly irritated by the way things were going. The sooner his visitors left the happier he would be.

But there was no stopping Paradou. ‘When I was in the army we used to have lectures about steering clear of the local girls. Why? Because they were always poxed up to the eyebrows. Well, in the last war Tante Hyacinthe’s mother was a “local girl”, and in the war before that so was her grandmother. And if there’s ever another war, that’s where Tante Hyacinthe will be – up front with the troops. She, and all her family.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse began to feel profoundly relieved he hadn’t taken advantage of Doctor Furze’s offer the night before. He wondered if he should pass on the news to Ananas or keep it in reserve.

Doctor Furze himself had been keeping very quiet during the whole of the conversation. He was deep in thought.

‘May I ask how this photograph came to be in your possession, Monsieur Pamplemousse?’

‘Photograph? There is a photograph?’ Aware of a sudden change in the atmosphere, Monsieur Pamplemousse played for time. At the mention of his name the two
gendarmes
exchanged glances, then stiffened as they caught the eye of their superior. He studiously avoided looking at Paradou. ‘Perhaps it was among the magazines. I heard you rustling them. Really, it is very hard to answer such questions when I cannot even see what you are discussing.’

Inspector Chambard came to his rescue. ‘Paradou, you get back in that bathroom.’

‘Perhaps, Monsieur Pamplemousse,’ he continued, ‘you would like to accompany me to the Gendarmerie?’ Both his name and the invitation were underlined by a wink. A brief, but very definite wink.

‘Am I to understand that you are placing me under arrest?’

‘No, but there are things you may wish to discuss.’

‘In that case, the answer is no.’

Inspector Chambard looked disappointed. ‘If you change your mind … If you see the
folie
of your ways, you have only to telephone.’