Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat E-Book

Michael Bond

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Monsieur Pamplemousse Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 304

Beschreibung

The garlic-laden winds of change are blowing through the vineyards of Burgundy. Under threat from the increasing use of pesticides is the helix pomotia: the humble snail, the main ingredient for escargot Bourgignon. Meanwhile, on the Canal de Bourgogne, Monsieur Pamplemousse is lecturing a group of international wine buffs on the fruits of the region, a task from which he is distracted by a Marilyn Monroe look-alike. It turns out that skulduggery among the vines will be the least of Monsieur Pamplemousse's worries.

Leseprobe

Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat

MICHAEL BOND

Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat

Contents

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

About the Author

By Michael Bond

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

It all began early one summer morning when Monsieur Pamplemousse saw a one-legged Papa Noël hopping at speed along the Boulevard Haussman as though he had a train to catch – or a sleigh.

In five months time the pavements outside the large department stores further along the boulevard would be awash with men in red robes and crepe beards, but in early July …

It was such an unusual sight his attention was momentarily diverted from the road ahead.

The man clearly believed in keeping his hand in, for despite the fact that he was in a hurry he couldn’t resist stopping to put his arms round a small child, whilst passing the time of day with its mother. (According to Doucette, during Christmas week the priorities were often reversed – especially after a good lunch!)

When Monsieur Pamplemousse concentrated once again on his driving, he realised to his horror that the traffic lights at the entrance to the Place St Augustin were showing amber and that instead of putting his foot down on the accelerator in order to beat the red light, the idiot driver of a builder’s lorry immediately ahead of him was braking hard.

He had little opportunity to feel aggrieved that the man should be behaving in a manner so extraordinarily out of keeping with his calling; it was all over in a split second. The immediate horizon grew dark as the back of the lorry loomed larger and larger. There was a jolt and his windscreen went milky-white.

For once, Pommes Frites wasn’t wearing his seat belt. He gave vent to a howl of alarm and indignation as he rocketed forwards, rebounded from the dashboard as another vehicle collided with their rear bumper, then slid sideways across his master’s lap.

Temporarily unable to extricate himself from the 50 or so kilos of dead weight jammed between his lap and the steering wheel, Monsieur Pamplemousse punched a hole in the windscreen and glared impotently at the tailboard of the lorry. As it swung shut a trickle of sand landed on his crumpled bonnet, adding insult to injury.

In the old days, as a member of the Sûreté, he would have thrown the book at the driver, going over the vehicle with a fine toothcomb in search of malfunctioning parts. One could be sure there would be many; faulty brake lights for a start – neither had emitted the faintest warning glimmer to signal the driver’s intention. Tyres would have had their depth of tread minutely measured; although if the sound of sliding rubber on pavé was anything to go by it would have needed a micrometer to register any faint semblance of a pattern. Badly adjusted rear-view mirrors – and a quick nudge would have ensured they were badly adjusted – would not have gone unrecorded. Dirty number plates …

The traffic lights having completed their cycle, the lorry roared on its way. Monsieur Pamplemousse stared after it. The salud didn’t even have a rear number plate!

He looked around for witnesses, but as though reading his thoughts, pedestrians on all sides were melting away like unseasonable snow on a warm pavement. Even the one-legged Father Christmas had disappeared. The only remaining person showing the remotest sign of interest was a man waving an admonitory finger at him from a shop doorway, as though accusing him of having been responsible for the accident in the first place. It was yet another reason for wishing he were still in the force. He would have taught the imbécile a thing or two. Dumb insolence … resisting arrest … running from the scene of a crime … the man would have been lucky to escape with a fine.

A loud blast from a horn somewhere immediately behind brought him back down to earth. The honking was followed by a shudder and the sound of tearing metal as the driver sought to extricate his vehicle by going into reverse. There was a loud clang as something metallic landed in the road. It looked like part of a wing.

Monsieur Pamplemousse adjusted his rear-view mirror, which had been knocked sideways by the impact. As he did so he gave a start, stifling the stream of imprecations he had been about to let rip with.

‘C’est impossible!’ He could hardly believe his eyes. Of all people! Had he been asked in advance to compile a short list of those he would have least wanted to witness his predicament, Monsieur Pamplemousse would, for differing reasons, have placed both names at the top.

What the Director and his wife were doing in the Boulevard Haussman at that time of day was anybody’s guess. His boss normally drove in to the office from their country residence via the Bois de Boulogne.

Hastily converting the gesture he’d had in mind into the perfunctory raising of his hat, Monsieur Pamplemousse forced his lips into a smile which he realised must appear somewhat fixed.

As the large black Citroën DX25 drew alongside there was the faint purr of an electric motor and the window on the passenger’s side slid open. The Director and his wife appeared to be engaged in animated conversation, but they broke off abruptly. Strains of soft music rather than words of sympathy emerged, floating on a waft of expensive perfume. Madame Chantal Leclercq was radiantly chic as ever; but it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the Director was looking a trifle edgy.

‘Monsieur, Madame.’ He sat back to allow his boss the privilege of making the first move.

‘I hope this doesn’t mean you are going to be late for the office, Pamplemousse!’ boomed a familiar voice.

Monsieur Pamplemousse stifled the response which immediately sprang to mind, and tried to leaven his words with a touch of humour he was far from feeling.

‘Fortunately, Monsieur, I was on my way to the garage. My deux chevaux is due for a service – the cocktail cabinet has developed a nasty rattle. It is, I believe, a fault common to the marque. On the other hand it may simply be all the empty bottles. Whatever the reason, it is as well to make sure …’

Catching a warning flicker from Chantal’s limpid blue eyes, Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. ‘I will be there as soon as possible, Monsieur.’

‘Good. Good.’ The Director reached for a mobile telephone and dialled a number. ‘I will instruct my secretary to arrange for a breakdown truck to tow you to the nearest garage.’

‘That is most kind of you, Monsieur …’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse.

He broke off as Madame Leclercq, seizing the opportunity while her husband was otherwise engaged, reached out and rested her hand momentarily on his. It took him by surprise, causing a watery feeling in the pit of his stomach.

That Chantal felt it too was patently obvious, for she quickly withdrew her hand, but not before the gesture had left its mark.

Once again he was struck by the colour of her eyes; the colour, and as they widened in surprise, by some indefinable expression within. Anxiety? A cry for help?

She appeared to be on the verge of saying something, but it was too late. The Director had already finished his call.

‘When you eventually reach the office, Pamplemousse, perhaps you would kindly contact Véronique with regard to the insurance. I have asked her to make sure she has all the necessary forms prepared.’

While he was talking the Director leant across in front of his wife and as he did so he, too, gave a start.

‘I trust Pommes Frites is none the worse for the mishap. Would you like me to call a vétérinaire?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced down. Pommes Frites was clearly milking the situation for all it was worth. Any passing insurance assessor catching sight of the injured expression on his face would undoubtedly have upped the potential damages on the spot.

‘I think he is merely making a point, Monsieur. He probably thinks he is safer where he is for the time being.’

The Director looked relieved. ‘You must bring him in to see me when you reach the office, Aristide. It is a long time since we had a get-together. I have forgotten. Does he prefer Evian or Badoit?’

‘Evian, Monsieur. Bubbles make him sneeze.’

‘Good.’ The Director tempered relief at receiving a positive report on Pommes Frites’ physical well-being with a steely gaze, as though everything he saw only confirmed his worst suspicions. ‘I am pleased to hear it. I shall look forward to seeing you both later.’

The mellifluous sounds of the Blue Danube as interpreted by André Kostalanitz and his Hollywood Bowl orchestra faded as the window slid shut.

Finding his door jammed, Monsieur Pamplemousse eased himself out from under the steering wheel, climbed on to the seat and emerged through the open roof. In his wisdom, Monsieur André Citroën, the designer, had covered every eventuality.

He gazed after the Director’s car as it purred on its way, driver and passenger once again engaged in animated conversation, almost as though nothing had happened. The price difference between the two vehicles was reflected in the damage they had suffered. Monsieur Leclercq’s DX25 had been barely scratched, whereas his own 2CV looked as though it was returning from a particularly riotous all-night party.

As the Director sailed through the lights, Madame Leclercq turned and waved back at him.

There were waves and there were waves. It seemed to Monsieur Pamplemousse that Chantal’s wave was prompted by something more than a mere act of politeness. Once again he was conscious of a message being conveyed.

The image was still occupying his thoughts later that morning when he arrived, hot and tired, at Le Guide’s headquarters. Any hopes he might have entertained about slinking into the building unobserved were doomed to failure. Rambaud, the gatekeeper, couldn’t wait to buttonhole him. Hardly had Monsieur Pamplemousse applied his magnetic card to the lock on the pedestrian entrance let into the main gates, than he was out of his hut like a shot from a gun.

‘I know, I know,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse wearily. ‘Monsieur le Directeur wants to see me in his office.’

‘And Pommes Frites,’ said Rambaud, not wishing to be wholly deprived of his vicarious pleasure. ‘Do not forget Pommes Frites.’

‘And Pommes Frites,’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Concentrating his thoughts on what might lie ahead as he entered the building, he was conscious for the first time of warning bells. Pommes Frites was always made to feel welcome; there was nothing unusual in that. If you counted gift-wrapped bones, then Christmas brought him noticeably more in the way of presents than it did his master. However, joint invitations to the seventh floor were rare. Pommes Frites’ presence on high was usually accepted with good grace rather than specifically sought.

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s feeling of unease was reinforced a few minutes later when, having passed through an empty outer office, he entered the holy of holies and found the Director’s secretary on her hands and knees in the middle of the room. A white napkin had been laid out on the carpet and she was in the act of emptying a large bottle of Evian water into a bowl; a little oasis in a sea of beige. All it lacked to complete the scene was a potted bonsai palm tree or two. Never one to query good fortune when it came his way, Pommes Frites set to with a will.

Bidding Monsieur Pamplemousse make himself comfortable in the visitor’s armchair, the Director dismissed his secretary and then reached for a cut-glass decanter standing on his desk. Alongside it were two glasses and a solid silver paperweight fashioned in the form of Le Guide’s well-known symbol – two escargots rampant.

As he watched the pouring of a nameless amber-coloured liquid, it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that whether by accident or design, one glass was faring rather better than the other. Could it be an indication that for some reason as yet to be revealed, his boss had need of ‘Dutch courage’, or was he hoping the larger of the two would provide a mellowing effect on his guest? He hadn’t long to wait for an answer to the riddle.

The Director held out the smaller of the two glasses for Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘This will do you good after your little fracas this morning, Aristide. It only goes to show one must exercise vigilance at all times.’

Taking the glass, Monsieur Pamplemousse raised it to his nose and hazarded a guess at a Marc de Bourgogne, that most potent of restoratives much beloved by those to whom refinement of taste is not the prime requirement. It was not one of the Director’s customary tipples. He wondered if the fact had any significance. As a restorative it certainly did the trick. At the first sip he felt an immediate warm glow course through his veins.

Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the glass reflectively. ‘I was distracted by the sight of a Papa Noël in the Boulevard Haussmann, Monsieur. The poor man had only one leg and he seemed to be in a hurry. I had wondered about offering him a lift.’

‘I daresay he was making haste for the same reason that Chantal and I left you as quickly as we did,’ said the Director. ‘There is a reason for everything in this world, Aristide. We were late for a fashion show heralding the forthcoming winter modes. The affair was in aid of charity. The handicapped of Lapland, I believe. Fortunately your lapse of concentration didn’t delay us unduly.’

‘I am relieved to hear it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly. ‘My deux chevaux is, I fear, hors de combat.’

‘A long job?’ The Director made play with some papers on his desk.

Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘A week, Monsieur … possibly two. Apart from the shattered windscreen and the lights, there is a large dent in both the bonnet and the door on the driver’s side. Also, one of the rear wings needs replacing. Since it went out of production parts are becoming harder to obtain.’

‘Capital! Capital!’ Dropping any pretence at a lack of interest in the subject, the Director rubbed his hands together.

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at him. ‘I am glad you think so, Monsieur.’

‘Please do not misunderstand me, Aristide. It is simply that Fate moves in mysterious ways, its wonders to perform. As my wife was saying to me only this morning, it is almost as though certain happenings in life are pre-ordained.’

‘That same thought has often crossed my mind, Monsieur.’

‘Your misfortune, par exemple,’ continued the Director, ‘renders what I have to say singularly apposite.’

‘I am glad someone is benefitting,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse coldly. ‘It isn’t every day one sees a one-legged Papa Noël in the Boulevard Haussmann. It would be comforting to know that it was pre-ordained and served some divine Christian purpose.’

‘Since it put your car out of commission, Pamplemousse, the answer could well be yes. I have been thinking for some time that you look in need of a rest. All work and no play makes Jacques a very dull homme.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse relaxed. It was true that what with one thing and another he’d had his nose to the grindstone for some while now. He hadn’t realised others had noticed it too.

‘I suggest, Aristide, the time has come for you to take a holiday. At Le Guide’s expense, of course.’

‘A holiday, Monsieur? At Le Guide’s expense?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director. ‘Won’t Madame Grante in Accounts have something to say?’

The Director glanced nervously over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. ‘For the moment, Aristide, this is strictly between ourselves. No one else, least of all Madame Grante, must know.

‘However, before we go any further, I would like, if I may, to digress a little and explain the way my mind is working.

‘The other day I came across an article in a magazine on the subject of the helix aspersa. The humble snail, which, in many people’s eyes the world over has, along with frogs’ legs, always been a symbol of France. The article was based on a seminar the writer had attended in Czechoslovakia. It was short and to the point, and I have to say it made doleful reading.’

‘My sympathies are with the author,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As an occasional contributor to the staff magazine I know these things are not always as easy as they sound. It is hard to picture what one could say at length about an escargot. They lead humdrum lives, dallying among the vine leaves. Innocents at large; blissfully unaware for most of the time of what is going on in the world, particularly when it comes to reading the minds of passing blackbirds …’

‘They are also,’ said the Director pointedly, ‘and for much the same reason, becoming increasingly hard to find in their normal habitat. The Burgundian escargots – the helix pomotia – suffer from the modern use of insecticides; noxious chemicals thoughtlessly sprayed on the very leaves where they once made their home.

‘In all probability, if you buy a tin of escargots in Dijon today and take the trouble to read the small print on the label you will find the contents come from places as far afield as Nagasaki and Smolensk. They bear little resemblance to the original incumbents of similar tins in days gone by.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded his agreement. ‘Only the other week Doucette saw some frozen snails in the delicatessen. They were labelled “Produce of Turkey”. She refused to buy them, of course, but I fear she is fighting a losing battle.’

The Director gave a shudder. ‘Mark my words, Pamplemousse, the day is not far distant when the label will read “Packed in Taiwan”. You realise, of course, what all this means?’

‘The good citizens of Dijon will have to promote other images on their labels, Monsieur, otherwise they will find the Institut National de la Consommation bearing down on them, levelling accusations of “passing off”. Escargots with slant eyes, perhaps? Higher cheekbones befitting their Slavic origins? A fez adorning the heads of those in the illustration?’

The Director dismissed the suggestion with a gesture of impatience. ‘That is not what I had in mind, Pamplemousse.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse essayed another attempt at solving the riddle.

‘The pottery industry will feel the cold wind of change. Doucette’s sister has a bedside lamp shaped like a giant snail. Its head lights up when you operate the switch. She is always grumbling because the horns cast a shadow over the pages when she is reading in bed. Souvenir shops will be going out of business …’

‘There is good in all things,’ said the Director. ‘Try again, Aristide. You are getting warmer.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter yet further. Clearly the Director had something very fundamental in mind. ‘I believe that traditionally one of the local Chevaliers du Tastevin enjoy a one metre high ice cream in the shape of an escargot at their annual celebrations. As a symbol, that, too must be at risk.’

‘Exactement, Pamplemousse! You have hit the snail on the head at last. Symbols are at risk.

‘Now try transferring your thoughts to a venue nearer home.’

‘Merci, Monsieur.’ Deliberately misunderstanding the remark, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced meaningly at the decanter. When the Director was in one of his guessing moods it needed all his powers of concentration; powers that could not be expected to perform unaided.

The Director obliged and at the same time put Monsieur Pamplemousse out of his misery. Reaching across his desk he picked up the paperweight.

‘It means, Aristide, that our very own symbol, the company logo created nearly a century ago by our Founder, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, which has adorned our publications and our stationery ever since, is also in danger.’

Pausing to let his words sink in, the Director glanced uneasily towards the wall at the far end of the room where the Founder’s portrait in oils looked down on them. Following his gaze, it seemed to Monsieur Pamplemousse that the expression on Monsieur Duval’s face, which in an uncanny way always seemed to act as a kind of conversational barometer, reflected disapproval of the present rather than any great hope for the future. He wondered if one of the cleaners had rotated the overhead strip light slightly so that the filament of the lamp cast a shadow. Whatever the reason, the Director must have noticed it too, for he quickly returned to the subject under discussion.

‘I have been giving the matter a great deal of thought over the past few weeks,’ he continued, ‘and I have reached the sad conclusion that an effigy of two escargots rampant belongs to another age. What we need is something more forward looking …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse tried his best to be of help. ‘Perhaps, Monsieur, you could turn one of them round so that they are both facing the same way – one behind the other?’

The Director shook his head. ‘I cannot help feeling, Pamplemousse, that such a pose would give rise to ribald remarks on the part of some of our competitors. We live in an age where, given half a chance, people see evil in the least thing. The one bringing up the rear might well be accused of harbouring lascivious thoughts concerning his colleague. It would undoubtedly become a prey to graffiti and our image would suffer accordingly.’

‘Evil is in the eye of the beholder, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse primly. ‘In any case, being a hermaphrodite, the escargot does have the advantage of being able to keep its options open.’

The Director emitted a clucking noise. Clearly he had made up his mind and was not to be swayed. ‘Dubious reasoning, Pamplemousse. There are many humans around today who lack such an advantage, but it does little to inhibit their mode of behaviour.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored the interruption. ‘It is an interesting fact,’ he continued, warming to his theme, ‘that many of the vines on which they graze are also hermaphroditic. They contain both the female and the male organs. When the anthers discharge their pollen, tiny grains of it are caught by the stigma which is situated at the top of the pistil. There they germinate and eventually reach the ovary where fertilisation takes place. It may just be a coincidence, but …’

The Director drummed impatiently. ‘There are other factors to be considered, Pamplemousse. It is hard to picture, but I am told that since the advent of nouvelle cuisine some people are positively repelled by the thought of an old-fashioned escargot sizzling away in its shell on a bed of garlic butter. Before we know where we are we shall have massed groups of animal rights protesters outside in the Esplanade des Invalides, baying for our blood.

‘Political correctness is rife in the world. Already Michelin have decided to slim down their Monsieur Bibenbum. In Asia he is often likened to a sumo wrestler.

‘What we need is a new logo; one more in keeping with present-day thinking. A logo which will in time become as well known and respected as its predecessor. A logo which will embody all the virtues, combined with an appreciation of the good things in life: integrity and steadfastness, alongside a love of food and wine. Alert and forward-looking, yet at the same time steeped in the past … like a modern Curé – neither fat nor thin, firm in his beliefs, yet open to the views of others.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed his boss doubtfully. ‘Such a figure will be hard to find, Monsieur.’

‘I think not, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director, fixing him with a penetrating stare. ‘I think not.’

Rising to his feet he assumed his Napoleonic stance; one which he held in reserve for those occasions when he had some important pronouncement to make. It was also a pose which allowed him to address his audience whilst at the same time avoiding direct eye to eye contact. At that particular moment, for example, his gaze appeared to be fixed on Pommes Frites’ water, and Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but wonder if that, too, had been laced with Marc. Pommes Frites had certainly lapped it up at record speed. Time would tell.

‘It is my considered opinion,’ said the Director at long last, ‘that if the truth be known, when it comes to things rampant one need hardly look further than this office.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. ‘Monsieur.’ Instinctively, he drew himself up in his chair and tried out a few tentative Napoleonic poses himself; a Napoleon who showed mixed feelings, the recipient of a doubtful compliment from one of his peers.

‘It is a signal honour, Monsieur. I hardly know what to say. When do you propose effecting the change?’

The Director came back down to earth.

‘As soon as possible, Pamplemousse,’ he said briskly. ‘If we are to achieve it before publication of next year’s guide there is much to be done. The advertising agency will need to be alerted in good time. Designs submitted for approval …’

He broke off. ‘Are you alright, Pamplemousse?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You keep twitching.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. ‘I was wondering, Monsieur, do you see it as a silhouette? Black against white? Because if so, near my apartment, there are a number of artists in the Place de Tertre who do a roaring trade with their scissors during the tourist season … it might be possible for me to obtain a sample or two of their work …’

‘That is one possibility,’ agreed the Director. ‘Then again, we could commission a well-known artist to paint a portrait. We might even, as they do with their labels at Château Mouton Rothschild, engage a new artist every year.’

‘They could become collector’s items,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse excitedly.

‘Indeed. But at all times they need to promote the right image.’ The Director took a quick slurp of his Marc. ‘Which leads me on to the vexed question of weight.’

‘Weight, Monsieur?’ Having been indulging himself in a further flight of fancy during which he pictured Doucette dusting his likeness in oils on the wall of their apartment, Monsieur Pamplemoussse looked at his boss enquiringly.

‘Weight, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director. ‘We must make the losing of weight number one priority. There is no time to be lost.’

‘But, Monsieur …’

‘But, nothing, Aristide. I realise it won’t be easy; there will be a natural resistance to overcome. However, I am not talking of major surgery – simply a tidying-up operation. There will be no question of vacuuming away the excess layers of fat, as I believe is the current practice in Hollywood; simply a soupçon off here – a soupçon off there.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. There was a certain lack of precision in the statement which bothered him, and while the chief was talking, his own mind began working overtime. He decided to take the plunge while he had the chance.

‘I have been reading a book called Je Mange Done Je Maigris, Monsieur – “I Eat Therefore I get Thin”. The author, a Monsieur Michel Montignac, explains how to lose weight painlessly using a new dietary system he has invented.

‘He has abandoned the calorie theory, which he pronounces a myth, and instead concentrates the reader’s mind on reducing his or her intake of the sort of food which embodies a high glucose content. According to his findings there is no limit to the amount you can eat provided you stick to his list of what goes with what.

‘He has opened a restaurant where a typical meal might consist of poached egg and smoked salmon, followed by boeuf Bourguignon with whole-wheat pasta, then cheese and a glass of wine. I understand it is proving very popular. Customers queue to get in, and he has been forced to open several boutiques specialising in foie gras and chocolates in order to cope with the overflow.’

‘I appreciate your enthusiasm, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director sceptically. ‘But are the patrons of his establishment any thinner when they finally emerge?’

‘It is hard to say, Monsieur, without knowing what they were like before they went in.’

The Director waved impatiently. ‘There is no time to test fanciful theories, Pamplemousse. Dietary miracles do not happen overnight. If we are to carry out the change before the next edition of Le Guide we must work quickly. Besides, I suspect chiens may not received a wholehearted welcome chez Montignac.’

‘I’m sure Pommes Frites won’t mind waiting outside, Monsieur. He has often had to on past occasions.’

The Director stared at him. ‘That is a very callous suggestion if I may say so, Pamplemousse, and hardly practical in the circumstances.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse returned the gaze. There was really no anticipating the workings of the Director’s mind. Who would have thought the possibility of man and hound having to part company for an hour or so would have weighed heavily on his conscience?

‘I cannot help but feel a regime of biscuits and water once a day would work twice as well in half the time,’ said the Director.

Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed him even more gloomily. ‘I doubt if Madame Pamplemousse will approve.’

The Director lowered his voice again. ‘There is no need for her to know, Aristide. Not if you carry out what I have in mind.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows. ‘Which is?’

‘I suggest you and Pommes Frites should take to the water for a week – escape from it all.’

‘A sea voyage, Monsieur? I am unable to speak for Pommes Frites, but I fear I am a very poor sailor. I have never forgotten a crossing I once made of La Manche. I have no wish to repeat the experience …’

‘That will not be necessary,’ broke in the Director. ‘What I have in mind is something much more tranquil. A voyage, Pamplemousse, on one of the great inland waterways of France.

‘To the outside world you will be investigating the possibilities of waterborne cuisine. With that in mind I have booked you and Pommes Frites on a canal holiday in Burgundy. It will do you both good.’

While he was talking, the Director downed the rest of the Marc and rose to his feet. Keeping his distance from Pommes Frites, who had been giving the appearance of hanging on to his every word with more than a passing interest, he crossed to the door and made to open it. A clear sign that he regarded the meeting at an end.

‘I wish you luck with the task in hand, Aristide,’ he said pointedly. ‘I realise it will not be easy, but you must be firm. Firm in making your wishes known and resolute in making absolutely certain they are carried out. I shall expect to see a big change when you return. I have made reservations on tomorrow’s TGV to Dijon – the 8.05. Véronique will furnish you with the rest of the details. Bonne chance!’

The Director’s hand felt unusually moist to the touch; the relief in his voice as he uttered his hasty goodbyes was only too apparent. It was almost as though he had been expecting trouble; trouble which hadn’t materialised.

As the door closed behind him, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked enquiringly at Véronique. She opened a desk drawer.

‘Some people have all the luck.’

‘If that is what you call living on a barge for a week, condemned to a diet of bread and water,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly. ‘I have to say my cup of happiness is hardly in danger of running over.’

‘Allez raconter ça ailleurs à d’autres! – tell that to the marines …’ Before Véronique had a chance to elaborate, her telephone rang. She picked up the receiver and cupped it under her chin while she handed Monsieur Pamplemousse a large brown envelope with one hand and waved goodbye with the other.

‘Oui, Monsieur.’ She picked up a tray. ‘At once, Monsieur.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse left her to it.

It wasn’t until he reached the end of the corridor and was waiting for the lift that he opened the envelope and glanced idly through the contents. As he did so a frown came over his face.

The lift came and went.

Returning to the Director’s office, Monsieur Pamplemousse found Véronique’s room was once again empty and through an open door beyond her desk he saw she was busy clearing up the remains of Pommes Frites’ water.

‘Monsieur …’

‘Yes, Pamplemousse …’ The Director reached hastily for a pile of papers. ‘I fear I have important work to do …’

‘Monsieur, I have just been glancing at the brochure Véronique gave me, and all the way through it seems at first glance to place great emphasis on food and drink.’

‘Everything in Burgundy has to do with food and drink, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director impatiently. ‘You should know that by now. Burgundians are pathologically incapable of writing the simplest sentence without introducing the topic. In schools all over the rest of France they teach children who are learning to read simple phrases such as “The man who opened the window is my uncle”. In Burgundy it becomes “The man who is looking in the window of the butcher’s shop is my uncle. He is a wine merchant specialising in Clos de Vougeot”.’

‘That being the case, Monsieur, would it not be sensible to avoid temptation altogether by following some other route? Par exemple, I believe there is a canal joining Paris to Strasbourg. For much of the way it goes through areas which are largely industrial …’

The Director exchanged a glance with Véronique, as though he could hardly believe his ears.

‘The route you suggest,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, holding up the brochure to emphasise his words, ‘seems to lay temptation upon temptation. If the illustrations are anything to go by, those taking it do little else but eat, drink and visit vineyards. The word “gourmet” appears no less than seven times in the first paragraph. On board, there is a guest chef from a two Stock Pot restaurant. In the evenings there are eight-course dîners accompanied by the finest wines. I really feel I cannot cope with it in the circumstances. One would be better off on a cycling holiday.’

‘You can hardly expect Pommes Frites to ride a bicyclette, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely. ‘Present-day saddles are not designed to give a chien support where its need is greatest. No, he can run alongside the boat while you eat.’

‘Run alongside the boat while I eat?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse slowly. ‘He will not take kindly to that arrangement, Monsieur.’

‘He will have to get used to it,’ said the Director patiently. ‘I am told there are a great many locks en route, so there will be time for him to rest while you are finishing your meal. There is no need for both of you to suffer.

‘You are a good fellow, Aristide, and I can understand your concern. But you must be firm. It is the only way if Pommes Frites is to lose the necessary amount of weight in the time available.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at him, wondering for the moment if he had heard aright. ‘Would you mind repeating that, Monsieur?’

‘I said, Aristide, that just because Pommes Frites has to lose weight, there is no reason in the world why you should suffer too. You must explain matters to him. Quietly and at length. I’m sure he will understand.

‘To represent Le Guide is a heavy burden on his shoulders. Shoulders, Pamplemousse, that before the week is out must look as though the carrying of responsibility, rather than trying to support an excessive quantity of kilogrammes, is their prime function in life.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced down while the Director was talking and as he did so he caught Pommes Frites’ eye. There were times when he wished his friend and mentor were blessed with the power of language, and there were times when he was relieved he wasn’t. It was definitely one of the latter occasions.

Not that Pommes Frites did badly with the limited vocabulary he had at his disposal. Coupled with his powers of sensitivity towards the reactions of others and his singular ability when it suited him to put two and two together in a remarkably short space of time, he often got the gist of things long before his human counterparts.

He had been giving the Director some rather pointed looks for quite a while. Now he seemed to be hanging on his every word.

Any feeling of disappointment Monsieur Pamplemousse might have harboured initially on his own behalf, soon gave way to one of pride on behalf of Pommes Frites; pride coupled with unease and apprehension at the mammoth task in hand. He wondered how he would break the news. It would be impossible to explain about the logo. Logos were not Pommes Frites’ strong point. Along with most other Parisian chiens, he treated the doggy shapes painted at intervals along the boulevards by the City Council to indicate their preferred areas of defecation with a lack of recognition bordering on contempt. Nor would it be possible to demonstrate by example what was required of his friend; quite the reverse. Monsieur Pamplemousse sighed. He could see difficult times ahead.

Realising he was being addressed, he pulled himself together.