Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation (6 page)

In strictly family terms, the contrast between the old guard and the new could scarcely have been greater: the one seedy and down at heel; the other, perched on the side of a hill a kilometre or so outside the village at the end of a narrow, purpose-built tarmac road; chic, modern, forward-looking.

Viewed from a distance it looked more like a fictional space laboratory than a hotel; mostly single-storied, but with a large domed main building in the middle, rather as though it had been conceived by an architect from a catalogue of parts, instead of starting from scratch on a drawing board. Perhaps it had been, but Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help wondering what its shelf life would be. The call nowadays was for something new, and built-in obsolescence wasn’t the sole prerogative of the automobile industry, but it was no wonder the local authorities had screwed Dulac into the ground before granting planning permission.

The only sign of life came from a flock of birds suddenly rising into the air as a man emerged from an area of beech trees to his left. Weaving an unsteady path, he picked his way across a small stream cascading down the hill; a tributary of the
tributary that flowed through the village, one of the many thousands that eventually ended up as the mighty Loire when it reached the sea in Brittany.

Whether it was the snow or he had been drinking was impossible to say; perhaps a bit of each, for he was making slow progress. He had a canvas bag over one shoulder, and Pommes Frites pricked up his ears at the sight of a large black dog ambling along behind, making the most of the snow. They must have been together, yet they looked strangely apart. The whole thing, the presence of water and cover, two basic necessities for the survival of wildlife, the behaviour of the man and his dog, made Monsieur Pamplemousse suspect a poacher at work, although the man didn’t seem to be making any bones about it. He might have owned the place.

Further up the hill a pair of imposing wrought-iron gates set beneath a stone archway bore the single word DULAC in gold lettering, marking the entrance to the grounds. As they drew near he heard a warning blast of a siren, and braking sharply, drew into the side of the road. Seconds later an ambulance poked its nose through the opening, gave another wail, then swept past them, heading back down the hill towards the village.

It was once again partly a case of cause and effect, but the brief encounter was sufficient to allow them time to see a sign which they might
otherwise have missed. Poking up out of the snow just inside the gates was a small board bearing a picture of a dog. Pommes Frites eyed it gloomily, not so much because it was an artist’s impression, and in his opinion a very poor one at that – some kind of terrier by the look of it – but because the features were partly obliterated by a large red line.

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s reaction was more of a double take. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was something else Monsieur Leclercq hadn’t taken into account; segregation of the very worst kind, the canine equivalent of apartheid. Worse still, it was probably done as a sop to foreign tourists who objected to seeing animals in the dining room.
CHIENS INTERDIT
indeed! Where else did they expect them to eat? What was the world coming to?

Well, it certainly wasn’t going to stop him staying there. Pommes Frites would have to remain in the car for the time being and be smuggled in through a back door. If there was such a thing as a back door at Dulac.

They drove in silence past a helicopter landing pad, then a sign pointing the way toward a nine-hole golf course. Despite the snow, a small group of hardy Japanese in red Wellington boots were at the first tee practising their putting with a black ball. Monsieur Pamplemousse shivered. It reminded him of Boulogne. From a distance their
matching red umbrellas with the single letter ‘D’ in blue added a colourful touch to the scene and he was almost tempted to stop and take a photograph. Cartier-Bresson would have clicked his shutter long ago and forgotten all about it, except of course his were always in black and white. Had he ever used colour? He couldn’t recall seeing any.

Otherwise there didn’t appear to be anyone around. Apart from playing golf in the snow, he wondered what people did all day.

Now that he was near enough to take a closer look, he saw that the layout of the hotel was not dissimilar to that of an airport, with corridors radiating out from the central area like the spokes of a cartwheel. Every spoke had attached to it a series of satellite rooms, each with its own patio arranged in such a way that it wasn’t overlooked by its immediate neighbour. In summer the views must be magnificent.

Some of the rooms had a car parked outside, and in addition to the internal corridor all were reached by a small ring road which clearly had the benefit of underground heating, for it was devoid of snow. Perhaps he had misjudged the architect after all, for he seemed to have thought of everything.

Another sign pointed to an underground car park. Across the entrance there was a police car, its doors still open as though the occupants had arrived in
a hurry. Monsieur Pamplemousse parked alongside it, so that he was shielded from the main entrance to the hotel. He didn’t want some young commis waiter on baggage duty to discover Pommes Frites before he’d had time to check out the lie of the land. Valet parking could be another hazard.

He needn’t have worried. Luck was with him. As he entered the reception area he found all eyes were on the departure desk where a major row was in progress. Snatches of it reached his ears: more monologue than dialogue since it seemed to be entirely one-sided; a no holds barred assault on the part of a woman of uncertain age and a small group behind the counter. It wasn’t hard to tell who was winning. Short, fat, her immaculately coiffeured head barely reached above the counter, but what she lacked in height she made up for in volume.

‘Doesn’t anyone here speak plain English?’ she demanded. ‘I want you to know I’m having it removed. You know why? It’s going to be exhibit ‘A’ in the lawsuit I’m bringing just as soon as Melvin and I get back home.’

The thought of having whatever it was removed brought a fresh murmur of protest.

‘Forget it. I got pictures. Just you wait until you get the bill from Melv’s orthodontist!
And
I’m taking you to the cleaners for stress, loss of dignity, loss of amenities through having to cut short our
holiday … you name it. And that’s without the phone bill. You won’t know what hit you …’ A peremptory call for the bell captain brought the diatribe to an end as she ran out of fingers.

An almost audible sigh of relief went up round the room. Two anonymous men in dark overcoats – local bankers or businessmen by the look of them; they might even have been tax collectors – rose to their feet and eyed Monsieur Pamplemousse as he went past, hastily circumnavigated a trolley piled high with Louis Vuitton luggage, then wormed his way between three police officers, two in uniform, one in plain clothes, who had been standing well clear of the argument.

Their leader, short, stocky, greying hair cut short in military fashion, was a typical detective of the old school. He looked as though he might have been about to say something, but then thought better of it when he heard Monsieur Pamplemousse checking in under the name of Blanc.

Monsieur Pamplemousse held his breath while the receptionist made an impression of his CIC credit card. It wouldn’t be an ideal moment to have her spot his deliberate mistake, but he needn’t have worried. She clearly couldn’t wait to talk to her colleagues on the other desk.

‘
Pardon, Monsieur
.’ Pressing a button to summon help, she handed back his card. ‘I will have Shinko
direct you to your room. I hope you enjoy your stay with us.’

Expecting someone of Asian extraction, a Japanese girl perhaps, since Dulac had not long ago returned from one of his Far Eastern excursions bearing a blushing bride, Monsieur Pamplemousse was taken by surprise when a tall, dark-haired girl, elegantly dressed in a black trouser-suit and bow tie, materialised by his side. She took a key from her colleague and looked at him enquiringly.

‘My valise is still in the car,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse by way of explanation, as he led the way outside. ‘Shinko? You are from Japan?’

‘No,’ said the girl. ‘Knightsbridge, actually.’

‘Ah, so you are English.’

The girl nodded as she climbed in to the passenger seat. ‘It was Mummy’s idea.’

‘Mama’s have such ideas the world over.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse started the engine and followed her directions along the ring road.

‘Shinko means “a growing girl”. It was in memory of Daddy. He fell in the Yangste soon after I was born and he was never seen again. They say he trod on a crocodile.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave the girl a sideways glance. It was hard to tell if she was being serious or not. That was the trouble with the English. They treated everything as though it were some kind of
joke. Did they have crocodiles in the Yangste? He decided to drop the subject.

‘So what was all the trouble about? And what is being removed as exhibit “A”?’

‘There’s been a nasty ax in the gym.’

‘An ax in the gym.
Qu’est-ce que c’est
?’

‘Sorry. An accident in the Physical Tuning Centre. There was a spot of bother with one of the velos – the cycling machines. She’ll have a job taking it away. It’s bolted to the concrete.’

‘And that brought the police in?’

‘It isn’t the first time the jinx has struck. Except it isn’t a jinx. Jinxes don’t saw through …’ She seemed only too eager to discuss the matter. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know the French for those things that hold the bits the pedals are attached to … the crank … to the gear wheel that drives the chain.’ She broke off and gave a laugh. ‘It sounds like a song …’

‘I think you mean the
clavettes
,’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Brilliant.’

‘A good many Frenchmen wouldn’t know that either. So what happened?’

‘Suite 22 was having a last go before checking out. It’s on video. All the machines have separate cameras so that the results can be recorded and afterwards you get given a printout. Apparently he
was pedalling away like mad. He’d got up to nearly forty kilometres an hour when both whatever it was you called them snapped at the same time. Wham! Half his teeth are on the floor, the rest are still stuck to the handlebars. They say there’s even one embedded in the camera lens. Talk about Doomsville!’

‘
Sacrebleu!
’

‘The French have a word for it,’ began the girl, then nearly jumped out of her skin as Pommes Frites stirred in the back seat at the sound of his master’s voice.

‘Forgive me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I should have warned you.’ He reached inside his jacket. ‘Are you good at keeping secrets? Between ourselves, I have a small problem. His name is Pommes Frites.’

‘A large one if you ask me.’ Shinko eyed Pommes Frites nervously as he stood up and peered over her shoulder.

‘Take this …’

She held up a hand. ‘It’s very kind of you, but it isn’t necessary. Save it for the room maid. You may need it. Word gets around.’

‘Please,’ insisted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I would be grateful for your help and it will make me much happier.’

With a becoming blush the girl folded the note
and slipped it into a top pocket of her jacket. At the same time she directed him into a parking bay outside one of the apartments.

Leading the way across the patio she opened a sliding glass door, then stood back to allow the others entry. Leaving Pommes Frites to carry out an inspection of his new surroundings while the girl got his luggage from the boot, Monsieur Pamplemousse squeezed past a white table and matching chairs. One thing was certain. He wouldn’t be having
petit déjeuner
outside next morning.

Entering the lounge area of the suite he found himself surrounded on all sides by understated elegance. In front of a long grey leather sofa there was a low table on top of which, alongside a telephone, reposed a bowl of fresh fruit and beside that another, smaller bowl containing chocolates from Bernachon in Lyon. At the other end there was an arrangement of flowers in Japanese minimalist fashion; three out-of-season tulips standing to attention in a thin glass vase.

Opening the door to a cupboard opposite the sofa he found a large television receiver with a separate video recorder, a fax machine with instructions for personalising the dial-in number, and let into the wall, a small safe, again with personal coding facilities.

While he was waiting for Shinko to return with
his baggage he carried out a quick inspection of the rest of the apartment.

The bathroom, situated between the lounge and the bedroom, was an architect’s dream of stainless steel, marble and smoked glass. There were mirrors everywhere, presumably to make you feel good or bad depending on how the fancy took you. Everything had been thought of: hairdryer; supply of tissues; two dressing gowns in his and her sizes; a plentiful supply of oils and soaps by Nina Ricci. Face cloths; a profusion of towels in various sizes, all monogrammed with a large letter D.

And why not? André Dulac had every reason to be proud of his achievement. To have created such an oasis in a normally remote part of France so that people from the world over flocked there all the year round was no mean feat.

He wondered what Doucette would have thought of the glass doors to each of the separate cubicles containing the bidet and the shower. There would be an ‘
Oh là là!
’ or two.

The sunken bath was approached via three marble steps, and behind a glass-panelled wall at its foot he could see a second television receiver in the bedroom, this time on a swivel base so that it could be turned to face whoever was in the bath.

Entering the next room, Monsieur Pamplemousse
tested the springiness of the vast double bed with his hand, then lay back for a moment taking stock of his surroundings. He could get used to this and no mistake. Pommes Frites would be in his element when he saw it.

On either side of him there were stainless steel panels let into the wall. Closer inspection revealed several rows of buttons controlling the roller blinds, not only in the bedroom itself, but in the other rooms as well. Other buttons operated the lighting system in seemingly endless variations and combinations, as well as the television with its combined video player. Separate knobs controlled temperature and humidity, and as far as he could tell the air conditioning was mercifully silent. On a bad day you need never get up.