Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot (15 page)

Fräulein Brünnhilde gave another moan and a shudder went through her whole body as she relived the moment.

‘
Mein
Trockenbeerepauslese.
It has never happened to me before.’

‘I doubt,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘if it has ever happened to
anyone
quite like that before.’

‘
Mein
Eiswein
… please …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to distract her. ‘Eiswein is made from grapes which have been left hanging on the vine until after Christmas. They are picked while still frozen. The wine is sweet beyond measure, but it happens rarely. Perhaps once in a decade.’

Fräulein Brünnhilde opened her eyes. He noticed for the first time how blue they were. ‘Then let it happen again. Please let it happen again.’

‘It is not yet Christmas,’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Neither am I cold.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, bowing to the inevitable, ‘we may do a deal. There are ways in which you can help me. But first you must let me go so that I can move the car.’

Fräulein Brünnhilde closed her eyes again. ‘Do not be long. I cannot bear it if you are too long.’

‘I will be as quick as I can,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. Struggling free, he clambered unsteadily to his feet, signalling to Pommes Frites as he did so.

Pommes Frites jumped up wagging his tail. He sensed there was some kind of game afoot. Pommes Frites liked games and this one promised to be even better than usual.

The first half of the journey back down the mountain to the Institut des Beaux Arbres was conducted in silence. Pommes Frites spent most of the time gazing pensively out of the rear window, thinking thoughts, while casting superior glances at sheep grazing in the gathering dusk. Monsieur Pamplemousse was too busy concentrating on holding the 2CV in check with the handbrake to bother about making polite conversation. His mind was also racing on ahead to coming events. Now that he had marshalled his ideas he wanted to put them into action as quickly as possible. Speed was of the essence. Speed and confidence. Plus a reasonable amount of luck. The key to the Sanatorium was now safely in his pocket. He would have no hesitation whatsoever in using it. If necessary he would call in the local police. But that would involve lots of tedious explanations which would take time. Time was the one commodity he was short of. If all else failed, he would take it as high as he could possibly go. And if that failed … if that failed then at least he would have the satisfaction of knowing he had tried. His own conscience would be clear. Besides, he still had friends in the right
journaux.

Fräulein Brünnhilde was busy with her thoughts too. ‘Do you think the first time was best?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Or do you think the fourth?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse let go his concentration for a moment, long enough to glance across at her in wonder. She was like a child with a new toy, or a cat who had just discovered the existence of cream. It was a good job the
cords attaching the groundsheet to the car had finally broken. They might still be at it.

‘I think the third time was best.’ He turned his attention back to the road.

‘That is interesting,’ she mused dreamily. ‘I wonder why.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t reply. It was not a moment to discuss practicalities. The simple answer was that food and wine after the second excursion had provided new energy to go with the second wind, and by then Pommes Frites had also got into the swing of things. Equally excited at having discovered a new joy in life, he hadn’t even bothered to jump clear of the car. But by the time they set off on the fourth trip digestive tracts had begun to rebel, romance had flown out of the window.

‘It was good that Pommes Frites had a puncture outfit. I have never before met a dog with a puncture outfit.’

‘He is never without.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled hard on the brake as they approached a steep bend. Lights from houses in the valley below them were beginning to appear.

‘And a cylinder of compressed air. That, too, is unusual.’

‘It is for his kennel. He has an inflatable kennel. We do a lot of travelling together and sometimes he has to sleep outside. In the hot weather he prefers it.’

‘Ah! There cannot be many dogs with an inflatable kennel.’

‘As far as I know,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘he is the only one. I had it specially made.’

‘I had my
soutien-gorge
specially made. I sent away for it. It is also unusual. Have you met one before?’

‘Never,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He had read of them. They had enjoyed a brief vogue at one time, or so he had been told, but he had never actually encountered one at first hand so to speak. Now that he had he could see why they had never caught on. If he ever met one again he would treat it with respect, sticking to sea-level, where the air pressure was normal. As the road levelled out and they reached a comparatively straight section he took advantage of the moment to glance across at his companion again.

‘It is not necessary. In your case it is far from necessary. It is like gilding the lily.’

He felt a hand on his knee. ‘You are very kind.’

‘I am only speaking the truth.’

‘It is good for my ego. The
soutien-gorge,
I mean.’

‘What is good for the ego is sometimes bad for other things. Egos are like stomachs – they often grow too fat for comfort.’

Fräulein Brünnhilde looked down at herself. ‘You think I should lose my egos?’

‘I know you should. People are what they are. I have never met anyone yet who didn’t want to change themselves in some way; a larger nose or a smaller one, or one which is straight, or to be thinner or fatter, or taller or shorter. And for what reason? It is like buying a book by a film star telling you how to become as beautiful as she is. It is pointless. If she thought for one moment that there was any possibility of it happening she would withdraw it from sale. Why should people always want to look like someone else? Everyone is different; that is part of the joy of life.’

‘I shall keep them as a souvenir. You would like my egos as a souvenir?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head, ‘It would not be a good idea. Madame Pamplemousse would not be pleased.’

‘Ah!’ Fräulein Brünnhilde fell silent again.

It would certainly not be a good idea. Doucette wouldn’t be at all happy if she came across a pair of inflatable
doudounes
tucked away in his bottom drawer. Explanations would be tedious, prolonged and utterly unbelieved.

Again he felt a hand on his knee, lighter this time. ‘I think Madame Pamplemousse is a very lucky person. Does she think she is a lucky person?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse weighed the question in his mind. It was hard to say. You could live with someone half a lifetime and still not know their true feelings.

‘I cannot answer that,’ he said at last. ‘She looks forward to my coming home, that I know. But then, I think sometimes after a few days she looks forward to my going away again.’

‘And you? Do you look forward to going home?’

‘Yes. But then I also look forward to going away again. It is a good arrangement. We are not unhappy. It is the need to go back which is important. That, and the need to be wanted back.’

Another two corners and they were nearly there. As the perimeter fence came into view he pulled in to the side of the road and switched off the engine.

‘Tell me.’ Fräulein Brünnhilde took the photograph from her handbag and looked at it. ‘Is it because you have no children that you are interested in this girl?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the question carefully before replying. It was true in a way. Without his realising it and without ever having spoken to her, he felt he knew her and wanted to protect her. ‘It is certainly not for the reason you might think.’

‘That is all right then. I would not have liked that. I will help you.’

‘Good.’ He took the photograph from her. ‘You know what to do?’

‘Precisely.’ She went over his instructions again.

‘Excellent. You had better pack some things. Ask the girl to do the same. As for the other – we will work that out later.’ He looked at his watch. It said 18.52. That it had survived the buffeting on the mountain was something of a miracle; a testimony to its makers – Capillard Rième. He might write to them. Except that it would be impossible to explain all that had actually happened. They would never be able to use it as advertising material.

‘You had better check your own watch. I will be back here at 20.00 precisely.’

‘I am sorry. My watch has stopped. It has 14.12.’

‘In that case you had better borrow mine. I have my car clock. It is important that you are not late.’

He slipped the watch off his wrist and suddenly felt naked without it. Second only to his pen it was the personal possession he treasured most. As he slipped it over Fräulein Brünnhilde’s wrist and began doing up the strap she gave a shiver.

‘You are cold?’

‘No. Suddenly a little lonely. That is all. After tonight I will not see you again.’

‘If all goes well I will see you in Paris.’

‘That will not be the same.’

No, it would not be the same. The cobbled streets of the Butte Montmartre would not lend themselves to such goings on. Doucette would be keeping a watchful eye on him as well.

‘It is always unwise to try and go back; to repeat the unrepeatable.’

She gave a laugh. It was a good sign – the first time he had heard it. ‘I have been thinking. I do not even know your name.’

‘My friends call me Aristide.’

He felt the barest touch on his forehead; a butterfly of a kiss. Then the door opened.

‘Thank you, Aristide. I shall leave my watch where it stopped. It will always remind me of a very happy afternoon in the mountains.’

He allowed her to walk a little way down the road before starting the engine, then caught up with her just as she was disappearing through a gap in the bushes. He fielded the second kiss in mid-air and mimed putting it into his pocket, then she was gone.

Pommes Frites gave a loud yawn and began moving about restlessly on the back seat. Monsieur Pamplemousse took the hint and stopped for a moment to allow him into the front. It still felt warm from Fräulein Brünnhilde. A moment later they were on their way again, each busy with their own thoughts.

It was late when Monsieur Pamplemousse finally entered the dining-room of Les Cinq Parfaits. The tables were full; the ceremony of the raising of the domes was in full swing; there was a buzz of animated conversation.

He was walking somewhat stiffly; joints were beginning to seize up, muscles making their presence felt, rebelling against doing even the simplest of day-to-day tasks like moving his legs. Even a long, hot bath hadn’t persuaded them to behave otherwise. He paused by the window
separating the
cuisine
from the restaurant. The scene on the other side of the darkened glass was reminiscent of the performance of a modern ballet. The
commis-poissonnier
partnered Gilbert in a
pas-de-deux
over some
truite,
sprinkling almonds over it like confetti with all the masculine delicacy and authority of a Nureyev. The
commis-
rotisseur
and Edouard were limbering up in front of an oven, preparing themselves for their own particular moment of truth. Alain was just disappearing offstage with a large bowl.

There was a new face where Jean-Claude would normally have been; perhaps the
commis-pâtissier
was enjoying his big moment as a stand-in. He glanced at his watch. By now Jean-Claude would be well on his way to Paris. All around the
cuisine
the
corps-de-ballet
moved swiftly and with precision, gathering up dishes with lightning speed, conveying them to the
sous-chef
for final inspection and checking before handing them over to the waiters and thence to the diners in the other room. Of Albert there was no sign. Turning round, he caught sight of a white hat at the far end of the restaurant. He must be doing his rounds.

Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way towards his table. It was the cue for action. Again, it was akin to a ballet. Waiters preceded him. Greetings were exchanged in the correct pecking order. His chair was moved back and carefully replaced, the moment judged to a nicety. The napkin was whisked away, shaken open and placed on his lap. He ordered an apéritif – a Kir made with
framboise;
the house speciality.

The menu materialised, along with a bottle of the ubiquitous Evian – one more out of the six hundred million which left the factory every year. The
carte
des
vins
was placed discreetly within his reach, a plate of hot
friandises
appeared on the table as if by magic – slivers of sausage encased in the lightest of pastry. He tried one; it positively melted in his mouth. Jean-Claude’s stand-in was making the most of his opportunity. The cast withdrew, leaving him to his
friandises
and his ponderings on the evening’s events.

Doucette had taken the news that she was about to be
invaded remarkably well, entering into the situation with brisk efficiency. Rooms would be aired, beds would have to be remade. No doubt she would rush out and buy some flowers. There was no telling. Perhaps she’d sensed the urgency in his voice. Perhaps it was simply a need to feel wanted. As soon as he got back to Paris he would have to make other arrangements. Dinner accompanied by long, hot glances from Fräulein Brünnhilde would not go down well. There would be language barriers with the English girl. On the other hand, they might all get on like a house on fire. You never could tell.

First things first. He turned his attention to the menu. In all probability it would be his last meal at Les Cinq Parfaits. He must make the most of it. Tonight there would be no face at the window to spoil his appetite.

The whole operation at the Institut des Beaux Arbres had gone like a dream. In many ways it felt like a dream. Bluff had been the order of the day; borrowing the black boy who had shown him to Jean-Claude’s room on the first evening, a happy thought. It had added the necessary stroke of realism. In the event Madame Schmidt had queried neither his sudden metamorphosis from being the emissary of a prospective student to that of a person of authority, nor the removal of Jean-Claude. Her husband had been more suspicious, asking for papers. He’d had to lean on him a little, adopting his long-practised ‘I’m asking the questions’ voice. ‘Watch it, or it will be the worse for you.’ It worked as it had always worked in the past. Pommes Frites had bared his teeth with great effect at the appropriate moment.

The taxi driver with his borrowed limousine had behaved magnificently; assuming exactly the right degree of studied indifference – of having seen it all before, leaning against the bonnet picking his teeth until required, his cap at a suitably insolent and rakish angle. He might have abducted people every day of his life. Perhaps he had in the past. The meeting with Fräulein Brünnhilde and the girl had gone without a hitch. Madame Grante would throw a fit when she saw the bill, but that was a minor problem.

A little way along the restaurant the V.I.P. was holding court. The table had been set very slightly and very discreetly apart from the rest. There were four other members of the entourage, each vying for the privilege of ministering to his wants; no doubt acting as bodyguards as well. He made a joke. Rolls of fat loosely encased in silken robes shook with laughter. It was echoed in turn by an obedient ripple round the table. Watching the scene over the top of his menu, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if one of them missed his cue. He wouldn’t fancy their chances. What was it the chief had said about him?