Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation E-Book

Michael Bond

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

Seitenzahl: 331

Beschreibung

Monsieur Pamplemousse is looking forward to a well-earned break in the South of France courtesy of his employer - all he has to do is collect a piece of artwork for Le Guide's Director. But when his contact fails to show and a dismembered body is washed up outside the hotel, the holiday mood evaporates. As Pamplemousse struggles with the case (and with modern technology) his ever-faithful bloodhound Pommes Frites is on hand offering proof why, during his time with the Paris Sûreté, he was one of their top sniffer dogs.

Leseprobe

Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

MICHAEL BOND

Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

Contents

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

About the Author

By Michael Bond

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘Statistically,’ said Madame Pamplemousse, ‘there can’t be many people who travel all the way from Paris to the Côte d’Azur, only to end up being forced to watch a class of mixed infants give a performance of West Side Story.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked gloomily around the school hall. Statistically, as far as he could judge, they were the only ones; certainly there was no one he recognised from the train journey down.

‘These things happen, Couscous,’ he said.

‘They do to you,’ said Madame Pamplemousse, with a sigh. ‘They don’t to other people. Other people would be having their dinner by now.’

Doucette was quite right, of course, and there was no point in arguing. He only had himself to blame for waxing lyrical about the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or, and how lucky they were to be staying there on the Antibes peninsula at someone else’s expense. In particular, he had lavished so much praise on the joy of sitting on the hotel’s world famous terrace of an evening, sipping an apéritif while studying the menu as the sun slowly disappeared over the western horizon, anything less had to be an anti-climax.

And less was what they had ended up with. His employer, Monsieur Henri Leclercq, Director of Le Guide, France’s oldest gastronomic bible, had seen to that. For the time being at least, it was a case of grin and bear it.

Glancing down at the mimeographed sheet of paper they had been given before the start of the show, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank still further. According to a note at the bottom it wasn’t due to end for another two hours. Admittedly that included a fifteen-minute interval, but from the way things were going they would be lucky if they saw the sun rise again the following morning. He decided not to mention it. At least the music was upbeat.

The twenty strong orchestra, made up mostly of girls from the senior school, was specially augmented in the percussion section by pupils from the junior forms manning triangles and tambourines.

‘It’s nice that everyone has a chance to take part,’ said Doucette reluctantly.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at his wife.

Speaking for himself, he had a sneaking suspicion that some of the smaller ones had only got the job because they had failed their auditions for any other kind of work, including that of scene shifting.

Who would be a teacher?

To be fair, the fact that so far the singing had failed to match up to his LP of the original cast recording was hardly surprising. Ill-equipped as they were for ‘finger snapping’, the Jets’ arrival on the scene during the opening routine set the tone for much that was to follow. The number describing the delights awaiting newly arrived immigrants to America only came near to meriting the phrase ‘show-stopping’ when one of the more enthusiastic of the minuscule dancers overshot his mark and narrowly missed colliding with a Shark who was waiting in the wings to make an entrance.

Given the speed at which he was travelling, the fact that he failed to pass straight through the bass drum as he took a header into the orchestra was little short of a miracle.

Buddy Rich in his heyday would have been hard put to equal the cacophony of sound which rose, first from the percussion section, then from the main body of the orchestra.

For a moment or two chaos reigned. Tears cascaded down the cheeks of the infant in charge of the triangle as it was wrested from her tiny grasp. The harpist, her eyes closed in musical ecstasy, spent several seconds plucking the empty air before realising that her instrument was lying on its side, while the shrieks and squeals which rose from the string section rivalled that of the Sabine women as they met their fate.

At least there were no broken bones, but what Leonard Bernstein would have said about it all was best left to the imagination.

‘Do we have to stay, Aristide?’ whispered Doucette.

‘Only until the interval,’ hissed Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Pommes Frites will be wondering what has happened to us.’

‘I am sure he has better things to do,’ replied Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, we can hardly invite him in. He would find it very hard not to take sides. I hate to think what might happen to some of the Sharks.’

‘All the same,’ Madame Pamplemousse wasn’t going down without a fight, ‘I really don’t see why we have to meet this man – this so called “art dealer” – here of all places instead of in his gallery. If he has a gallery.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse allowed himself a sigh. ‘My dear Couscous, we mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. You should know by now that if there are two solutions to a problem, one of which is simple and the other complicated, Monsieur Leclercq always goes for the second. It is as inevitable as the fact that night follows day. That is the way his mind works and there is no changing it.’

‘Even when it is totally unnecessary, since we plan to visit Nice while we are here anyway?’ persisted Doucette.

‘Especially when it is totally unnecessary. He would not be happy otherwise.’

Having delivered himself of the homily, Monsieur Pamplemousse rearranged himself as best he could on a seat which would have been barely adequate for one of the cast, let alone anyone of above average bulk.

Despite his words, he couldn’t help feeling uneasy. Had he been asked to write about the many missions he had carried out on the Director’s behalf since he first began working for Le Guide, it would have run to several volumes. Indexing them, trying to find explanations as to when and how various events seemingly unrelated to each other became inextricably entwined, would be something else again. Footnotes would abound. Cross-references would have demanded yet another volume to themselves.

Their present situation was a case in point.

It had all begun with an evening spent with Monsieur and Madame Leclercq at their home near Versailles.

From time to time the Director and his wife took it into their heads to invite those who worked in the field, the Inspectors – who were, after all, the backbone of Le Guide’s whole operation – to dine with them. It was a form of bonding: almost the direct opposite of the American habit of allowing junior staff the privilege of wearing casual clothes to the office on a Friday, since it was a case of dressing up rather than dressing down.

That apart, given the surroundings – the beautifully tonsured lawns, the immaculate gardens, not to mention the food and the wine – few would have wished to forgo the pleasure. Only the wives had reservations, for in their case it inevitably meant an extra visit to the hairdresser on the day and as the moment drew near long heart-searching over what to wear.

It was after dinner, when Madame Leclercq and Doucette had retired to another part of the house to talk about whatever it was ladies talked about on such occasions, that Monsieur Leclercq first broached the subject of a holiday in the South of France.

As soon as Monsieur Pamplemousse saw the bottle of Roullet Très Rare Hors d’Age cognac appear he knew something special was afoot. However, by then he was overflowing with the good things of life and in a benevolent mood; his critical faculties on hold for the time being, his guard lowered.

The Director chose the moment of pouring, when he had his back to Monsieur Pamplemousse, to strike.

‘Is everything well with you, Aristide?’ he asked casually. ‘It may be my imagination or perhaps even a trick of the light, but it struck me earlier on this evening that you were not your usual self.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse, who until that moment had been feeling particularly at peace with the world, suffered a temporary relapse. He took a grip of himself. Two could play at that game.

‘It has been a busy twelve months, Monsieur, what with one thing and another.

‘There was the time I spent on the Canal de Bourgogne and the unfortunate business with your wife’s aunt. Admittedly her brother was in a sense once removed, having lived for most of his life in America … Well, given the fact that he was shot, I suppose you could say that in the end he was twice removed … but as things turned out it was scarcely a holiday …’

‘Ah, yes.’ The Director made haste to pass one of the large Riedel balloon-shaped glasses; filled, Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed, with rather more of the amber liquid than he would have wished given all that had gone before. The Director wasn’t one to stint his guests. Meursault with the goujons of sole, Château Cos d’Estournel with the pigeon and cheese, Barsac with the peaches and cream. He would have to watch his driving on the way home.

‘Then,’ he continued remorselessly, ‘there was the time earlier in the year when you had me pick up a car in Paris – the Renault Twingo you were giving to the illegitimate granddaughter of our late lamented Founder – and drive it down to the Auvergne. Again, if you remember, a home-made bomb planted in the boot wrecked my hotel room and very nearly took me with it … Hardly what one might call all in a day’s work.’

The Director seized on the mention of Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, founder of Le Guide, to raise his glass in silent homage and effectively cut short Monsieur Pamplemousse’s soliloquy.

Cupping it in his hands to warm the contents, he inhaled the vapour it gave off, then gave a deep sigh. ‘Aaah! It is no wonder they call it “The angel’s share”.

‘I know I have yet to thank you properly for all you did in both instances,’ he continued, ‘and on previous occasions too; but mention of them gives me the opportunity to make amends. All work and no play makes Jacques a dull boy and I think the moment has come when you should both indulge yourselves by investing in some quality time.’

The use of the Americanism confirmed Monsieur Pamplemousse’s suspicions that the Director had being paying yet another visit to the New World; he usually returned armed with a supply of the latest expressions. He also noted the sudden use of the plural tense.

‘My car is overdue for its first 300,000 km service,’ he said dubiously. ‘Since Citroën stopped making the Deux Chevaux, parts are often hard to come by. Doucette and I have been thinking of taking the train to Le Touquet and spending a few days with a distant cousin of hers.’

Monsieur Leclercq emitted a series of clucking noises, as though experiencing a momentary seizure. ‘I was picturing somewhere rather more exotic, Pamplemousse. Somewhere further south; on the shores of the Mediterranean, par exemple. A spell in the sun will do you both the world of good.’

‘Le Touquet can be very invigorating in June,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘particularly when the wind is from the north-east, but if you get down to the beach early in the morning and find a suitable sand dune to shelter behind, there are the sand yachts to watch … provided les Allemandes haven’t got there first … just lately Doucette has been suffering with her back …’

‘In that case,’ said the Director, ‘a week sitting on the beach in Le Touquet will probably do her more harm than good.’

‘I have been studying Shiatsu recently,’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is an ancient Japanese art where you apply pressure with your thumbs to various parts of the body …’

‘If you do that kind of thing behind the dunes, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq severely, ‘you may find yourself in trouble with the beach patrols.’

Draining his glass with a flourish to show that to all intents and purposes the matter was no longer up for discussion, his voice softened. ‘Neither Chantal nor I will take “no” for an answer, Aristide. I will have my secretary book three seats to Nice on the TGV – Première Classe – no doubt Pommes Frites will wish to accompany you both.

‘It is our way of saying “merci beaucoup”. Please do not deprive us of the pleasure.’ Normally Monsieur Pamplemousse would have bided his time, waiting for some kind of catch to emerge. It always made him feel uneasy when the Director addressed him by his first name. But despite everything, the words had been spoken with such simplicity, such innocence, humility even – a quality he rarely associated with the Director – he found himself wavering.

‘If that is what you really wish, Monsieur …’

‘It is, Aristide. It is. And I know Chantal will be especially pleased.’

And on that note the evening had come to an end.

They were barely out of the front drive and heading for home when Doucette broke the news. ‘Isn’t it wonderful, Aristide? Madame Leclercq has been telling me all about it. And really, all they want in return is that we should pick up a piece of artwork for them. Apparently it is too precious to be entrusted to a carrier. All the same, it seems so little in return for so much. Mind you, knowing the Director I’m sure it won’t all come out of his own pocket.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to say he would be surprised if any of it did, but Doucette had been so excited at the thought of an unexpected holiday he hadn’t the heart to throw cold water on it. Anyway the die had been cast and the whole thing sounded innocent enough.

So what was new? Wasn’t that the way most of his adventures on the Director’s behalf had started?

For the same reason it came as no great surprise when at the last minute the arrangements had been changed; picking up the painting or whatever it was at the concert rather than from the gallery itself.

As order was at last restored and the orchestra took their places and began tuning up again he glanced around the hall. Apart from the seating, it really was the most luxuriously equipped school he had ever come across.

‘Not like it was in our day, Aristide,’ whispered Doucette, reading his thoughts.

Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t like it had been in anyone’s day.

As for the technical equipment … On the way in they had passed a state-of-the-art sound mixing console, the sole purpose of which seemed to be that of achieving a balance between the orchestra and the individual soloists, all of whom were equipped with concealed radio microphones. Video cameras were dotted around, set to record every moment of the production. According to the programme, edited tapes of the complete show would be available at a future date. As for the lighting rig: apart from the footlights, there were spots and fillers galore over the stage area. Suspended from bars which could be raised and lowered by remote control from somewhere behind the scenes, they wouldn’t have looked out of place in a television studio. He wondered where all the money had come from.

What was it the hotel concierge had said? ‘It is the only mixed infants school in France with an eighteen-hole golf course.’ It had sounded like a local joke at the time.

It seemed that everyone, apart from the builders, had profited from the largesse bestowed on it by some unknown Russian benefactors. The contractors had been screwed into the ground, and in the end had gone bankrupt along with the architect, having had to pay out a vast sum for failing to meet the completion date. Rumour had it that almost immediately afterwards the same company had set up under another name further along the coast constructing a vast multi-storey car park, but not before having been suitably recompensed for their previous loss.

It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse there might have been more to the story, but a party of Americans had come along wanting to know where the action was of an evening and caginess had set in, so he had been unable to pursue the subject.

He resolved to claim the rest of his hundred francs worth of information later.

He stole a glance at the programme. It couldn’t be long before the interval. The scene had already changed to a bridal shop and Maria’s first solo number.

If he had been asked to single out a possible contender for future non-stardom, he would have opted for the infant who had been chosen for the part. Her rendering of the song ‘I Feel Pretty’ was a triumph of imagination over reality. The only mercy was that she made no attempt to play the large musical instrument she had round her neck. Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help reflecting that her father must have made a sizeable contribution to the school’s facilities; a science lab, perhaps, or a new gymnasium at the very least: perhaps even the air-conditioned hall itself.

‘I don’t remember there being a balalaika in the original version, do you Aristide?’ whispered Doucette.

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head as he looked up the child’s name on his sheet: ‘Olga Mugorvski’. It sounded like a disease.

Joining in the dutiful applause at the end of her number, he fell to wondering why it was that different nationalities were often so instantly recognisable. Without even knowing the child’s name he would have put her down as being Russian, or at least of Baltic extraction. It was the same with the Americans and the British; Italians and Germans too. It wasn’t simply a matter of features; the cheekbones, the shape of the nose or the mouth, or even the way people dressed. It had to do with many things: their bearing for a start; the way they looked at you; the way their hair grew, and even more importantly, the way it was cut. With some there was a whole history writ large. There was the openness of people from the American mid-west: with Russians it was possible to detect a lifetime of suffering in the lined faces of the old.

The young mistress who was directing the orchestra was a case in point. Dark, slender and vivacious; she couldn’t possibly have been anything but French. She would have made a wonderful Maria. There was a virginal quality about her snow-white doudounes. During a spirited rendering of ‘Gee, Officer Krupke!’ they threatened to burst forth each time she lifted her arms in order to signal various musical high points. It was safe to say that not a father in the audience remained unmoved. Hopes having been raised along with the arms, breaths were held, but to no avail.

Rapturous applause greeted the end of the number and cries of encore filled the hall. When the lights came up to signal the interval and it became clear that many a dream would remain unfulfilled, those nearest the back made a beeline for the ticket desk to put their names down for the video.

‘Wonderful, weren’t they?’ whispered Doucette.

‘Heavenly,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Round and firm, yet not lacking movement when the moment was ripe, as in the final crescendo.’

‘Aristide! I was referring to the children.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at his wife. Truly, however many years two people spent together, there were moments when communication remained at a very primitive level. And if that were the case when discussing a matching pair of innocent doudounes – which possibly, although perhaps in this day and age not necessarily, remained as yet untouched by any human hand other than her own – what hope was there for the rest of mankind? Heads of State conferring over such complicated matters as the disposal of nuclear weapons would have their work cut out.

‘And she wasn’t wearing a brassiere.’ Clearly, as far as Doucette was concerned that was the end of the matter. Her copybook had been irredeemably blotted.

Monsieur Pamplemousse knew better than to argue. In any case the general hubbub as those around them stood up to stretch their legs put an end to further conversation.

Leading the way to the back of the hall, he hovered near the entrance, half expecting to receive a tap on the shoulder, or at the very least catch sight of someone carrying a large parcel, but he looked in vain.

‘Perhaps he is waiting for us in the hotel,’ said Doucette, as the minutes ticked by.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a grunt as they turned to go back inside. ‘That’s not what the concierge told me. The message was very specific. Besides, he would have given us the tickets if …’ He broke off at the approach of a small figure, a tray rather than a balalaika suspended from its neck.

‘Pragráma. Souvenir Programsk.’ You could have cut the accent with a knife.

Seen from close to, the child looked even more unprepossessing than she had on stage. Not so much a mixed infant as a mixed-up one. He wondered what she would become when she grew up. A tram driver, perhaps? Or a crane operator? If it were the former he wouldn’t fancy the chances of anyone running for the last one back to the depot late at night.

Ignoring a bowl filled with large denomination notes held in place by a paperweight, he took one of the programmes and felt for some small change.

‘Nyet!’ The child shook its head and held up four pudgy fingers and a thumb. ‘Cinq cent francs. Fife hundreds of francs. Eet is for good cause. Eet is in aid of school library.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse froze, then slowly withdrew his hand from a trouser pocket.

‘Nyet pour vous aussi!’ he said, with feeling.

‘Aristide!’ Doucette looked shocked. ‘She is only small.’

‘She may be small,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but I am not in the market for purchasing a deluxe edition of the complete works of Alexander Dumas.’

He could feel the child’s eyes boring into him as she made her way round the room and joined a small group standing at the far side of the lobby. He guessed it must be her parents: the woman, très solide, with tightly-permed hair, was how he imagined the daughter would be in thirty years’ time. As for the father, he was definitely one of the old guard; short, barrel-chested, far removed from the current breed of slim, Armani-clad Westernised executives. Apart from the open-necked shirt and gold chain, he could have passed for a Nikita Khrushchev lookalike. The top of his shaven skull looked like an old warhead from an Exocet missile, and was probably twice as dangerous. Better a face to face meeting than have it trained on him while his back was turned.

Following a brief conversation, they all turned. The girl pointed towards Monsieur Pamplemousse. The father nodded, then patted her head affectionately before sending her on her way. None of which would have worried him overmuch if she hadn’t made a throat-cutting gesture with her free hand as she left. It caused hearty laughter all round. Her father passed a comment to another man, who responded with a smile that was rendered even more mechanical by what appeared to be a row of steel teeth. In all, it could only have lasted a half a minute or so, but he was left with the distinct feeling that he hadn’t heard the last of the matter. He hoped the daughter didn’t have a birthday coming up.

‘I didn’t like the first one’s ears,’ said Doucette, reading his thoughts.

‘And I don’t like tiny tots who go around demanding money with menaces,’ growled Monsieur Pamplemousse. Nor, he might have added, did he like ones that smelt strongly of pot, but then she wasn’t the only one. Looking around he decided he might just as well be in Leningrad or Vladivostok. He felt an alien in his own country.

‘You can tell a lot from ears,’ said Doucette darkly. ‘That man’s are much too small. They look as though they were stuck on as an afterthought.’

It was true. Since he had left the force, ears had become the subject of a great deal of scientific study. Prints taken from windows and doors often yielded as much, or more, information than fingerprints. On the other hand, he wouldn’t want to try taking the Russian’s ear-prints with an inkpad.

‘Shall we go?’ asked Doucette, as the audience began drifting back to their seats. ‘It doesn’t look as though he’s coming, and I really can’t stand much more.’

‘If that is what you would like, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, hoping she wouldn’t choose to argue the point.

Outside, it was like walking into an oven; much as it had been when they stepped off the train that afternoon. The air was heavy with the sensuous smell of mimosa and bougainvillaea. Pommes Frites came bounding out from behind an ancient olive tree, pleased to see them as ever. If he was surprised to find them leaving when everyone else was going in the opposite direction he showed no sign, rather the reverse. Monsieur Pamplemousse registered the fact that his brows were knitted, and his eyes, or what little could be seen of them beneath large folds of flesh, looked slightly glazed; sure signs that he had been thinking. Of what, would only be revealed in the fullness of time, if then.

In truth, had he been taxed on the point, Pommes Frites would have had to admit he wasn’t too sure himself, although a brain scan might well have revealed an unusual number of local disturbances in the overall pattern of his thought processes. In fact there were so many undercurrents darting hither and thither he might well have been asked to make a further appointment, for it was really a matter of sorting them into some kind of logical order.

His master’s prophecy on the way down that there would be new smells for him to smell and new trails for him to follow had proved all too true, although in the end both had come to an abrupt end in the car park. Putting two and two together had led him to one inescapable conclusion. The person responsible had gone off in a car OR – and this was where confusion began to set in – had been driven off. And if that were the case, then it must have been in the boot rather than at the wheel.

It was for such powers of reasoning that Pommes Frites had been awarded the Pierre Armand Golden Bone Trophy for being Sniffer Dog of the Year in the days when he, too, had been a member of the Paris Sûreté.

‘It was a funny evening, didn’t you think?’ said Doucette. ‘I don’t want to keep on about it, but I still can’t understand why we were supposed to meet up at a school concert instead of in Nice.’

‘Ours is not to reason why,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He watched as Pommes Frites disappeared into a clump of pine trees in order to investigate the sound of cicadas in a deserted boules area, the sodium lights casting a ghostly shadow as he dashed back and forth sniffing the ground. ‘I’m sure he had his reasons. Perhaps he didn’t want us to go to his shop.’

‘In that case, why didn’t he turn up?’ said Doucette. ‘Seeing all those Russians makes me wonder. I’ll say one thing for them. They all had lovely shoes. You could see your face in them. It reminded me of the time I gave your new slippers to the Victims of Chernobyl Disaster Fund. You were cross with me because you said it would be a miracle if they ever got that far. You said they were probably already being worn by some fat member of the Russian Mafiya toasting his feet in front of a roaring fire in his dacha.’

‘It is not quite the same thing, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse mildly.

‘We don’t even know how big a painting it is,’ said Doucette. ‘Perhaps that’s why Monsieur Leclercq wanted us to go by train. Have you thought of that?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit the answer was ‘no’. Trust a woman to home in on details.

Beyond the pine trees they passed a row of shops he didn’t remember being there the last time he had visited the area: a couple of boutiques, a photographic shop and another with drawn blinds.

Pommes Frites caught up with them as they drew near the hotel, then ran on ahead and pushed his way through the revolving door.

The concierge was nowhere to be seen and his number two rushed out from behind the counter as an errant tail made furious contact with an ancient dinner gong positioned near the lift. Other staff materialised within moments. An elderly women, her hair in curlers, appeared on the stairs.

‘It used to be the fire alarm, Monsieur,’ said the man reprovingly.

Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his wallet. ‘It is good to know it still works,’ he said cheerfully. ‘So often these things are mere token gestures. I must congratulate the management on keeping it as a stand-by. You never know when it may come in useful.’

Returning to his station the man reached for their room key. ‘The young Monsieur is staying here?’ he asked. ‘Because, if so …’

‘He has his own inflatable kennel,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have made the necessary arrangements with the beach attendant. I will take him down there in a moment.’

‘I will see that a bowl of water is made available for him before he retires for the night, Monsieur. Still or sparkling?’

‘Still, s’il vous -plaît,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Evian.’

Having made a note, the deputy concierge preceded them to the lift, opened the doors, stood back to allow Pommes Frites entry after his master and mistress, then pressed a button for the third floor.

‘It’s a wonder he didn’t ask what journal he likes in the morning,’ said Doucette, as the doors slid shut. ‘Or journaux.’

‘He will go far,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Good hotel concierges are worth their weight in gold. Their importance cannot be over-estimated. For the regular visitor they provide a sense of continuity; of timelessness in an ever-changing world. For those in search of information they have no equal. I must make a note.’

‘More work,’ sighed Doucette. ‘I thought this was meant to be a holiday.’

‘When it comes to hotels and restaurants,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as the lift came to a halt and the doors slid open, ‘there is no such thing as a holiday. The Director will still expect a report. Besides, I have a new laptop to test. It is one of the latest models – on the cutting edge of computer design.’

‘I would have expected nothing less from Monsieur Leclercq,’ said Doucette.

Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he detected a note of irony in her voice, but she was already gazing at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Women always had so many things to do before performing even the simplest of tasks, like going downstairs to dinner.

His colleague Bernard was fond of saying that his wife even applied fresh make-up before ringing up the butchers to make a complaint.

The terrace was crowded when they arrived back downstairs. All the prime tables nearest the sea had either been taken or had a reserved notice on them, and they were seated in a corner near the bar.

‘It is more romantic,’ whispered the female sommelier by way of consolation as she lit a candle for them. Any complaints Monsieur Pamplemousse might have harboured melted away.

Pommes Frites curled up under the table, his head resting between his two front paws, looking as though his mind was millions of kilometres away on another planet.

Dressed in the clothes he had worn to the concert, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt lost without the notebook he normally kept hidden in a pocket of his right trouser leg. Reduced to relying on his memory, he fell silent while he concentrated on the food. Doucette seemed to catch the mood too and, tired after their long journey, they retired to their room as soon as the meal was over, foregoing their usual café in case it kept them awake.

Before he went to bed, Monsieur Pamplemousse took one last look over the balcony at the scene below. The hum of conversation was a polyglot mixture of French, German, English, Japanese, plus a sprinkling of American voices.

In the distance he could see the twinkling lights of the coast road. An aeroplane drifting low overhead lost height and its landing lights came on as it headed towards Nice airport. Over it all the sound of a piano drifted up from the bar; recalling the days of Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda, whose photographs still graced the walls. He wondered whether it merited an ear plug – Le Guide’s symbol for background music, and decided not. From the medley of tunes he picked out Noel Coward’s ‘Room With a View’ and Cole Porter’s ‘Night and Day’. There was a selection of Maurice Chevalier hits. It was really very pleasant.

In the time it had taken them to come up in the lift more people had arrived. Their own table had been cleared and reset, and one of the larger reserved tables overlooking the sea was now occupied by the Russian group he had encountered at the school. Seen from on high with the moonlight shining on it, the father’s head looked more like a tiny Anglais Millennium Dome than a warhead.

He wondered what mysteries it might contain and if the family were just passing through or staying in the hotel. Probably the latter, since there was no sign of the daughter. Very likely she was sitting up in bed stuffing herself with whatever Russian children stuffed themselves with when they played ‘midnight feasts’. In her case it would be a packet of something pretty solid; dried sturgeon on a stick perhaps, with a large bowl of vodka-flavoured ice-cream to follow. With luck it might make her sick.

The sommelier materialised with a bottle and presented it to the father, who nodded his approval, as well he might. Even from two floors up Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised the distinctive label with its host of brightly coloured bubbles.

It was a Côte Rotie La Turque from Guigal. Tasting dispensed with, the girl disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a second bottle. At anything up to 2000 francs a go, they were certainly pushing the boat out. The concierge was right about where all the money came from in that part of the world.

‘Are the people who were at the table behind ours still there?’ called Doucette.

Monsieur Pamplemousse leant precariously over the edge of the balustrade. Once again there was the ubiquitous smell of bougainvillaea. ‘I think not …’

‘There were three of them – an American and another couple. The American caught my eye because he reminded me of Tino Valentino. Remember … he was singing at the dance you took me to at the Mairie last Christmas. He was much shorter than I expected.’

‘Those sort of people often are,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, his mind on other things. ‘Remember Tino Rossi?’

‘The woman was definitely English, or I suppose she may have been Scottish – she had that sort of skin. She reminded me a bit of that American film star we used to go and see years ago – Greer Garson. I’m not sure what nationality her husband was. He kept looking at you. Once or twice I thought he was going to come across.’

‘You should have said.’ It was the story of his life. Where Doucette was concerned the action was always behind him.

‘I had a feeling it might mean more work for you and we are here on holiday. I think he may have been English too. He knew enough to raise his thumb when he was ordering. Not like so many foreigners who use their forefinger and then wonder why they get two of everything. But then at the end of the meal he left his fork with the tines pointing upwards. It was the kind of mistake that must have happened a lot in wartime. It’s the little things that give you away.’

‘You would have made a very good detective, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Do you really think so?’ Doucette sounded pleased as she turned off her bedside light. She gave a yawn. ‘I haven’t lived with you all these years for nothing.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to turn back into the room when his attention was caught by a movement at the far end of a long jetty to the right of the hotel.

A fishing boat had appeared out of the inky blackness of the bay and was tying up at the end of the jetty. It rocked violently as two shadowy figures struggled to land their catch. He smiled to himself as he caught sight of Pommes Frites hurrying towards it to see what was going on. He wished he had his energy.

‘Would you like me to lower the shutters, Couscous?’ he called.

But in the words of the famous Scottish poet, Sir Walter Scott, ‘Answer came there none.’ Doucette was already fast asleep.

It wasn’t long before Monsieur Pamplemousse was in the same blissfully happy state. His last waking memory was that of hearing a series of three distant howls. Long, drawn-out and mournful, they were reminiscent of the wailing of a North American train crossing the prairie at night. Or so it always seemed to be in Westerns.

Had he been in a slightly less comatose state, he would undoubtedly have recognised it for what it was: the plaintive cry of a frustrated bloodhound making his way homeward to an inflatable kennel.

Though the first was man-made, and the other reflected nature in the raw, they both performed a similar function.

As Pommes Frites settled himself down for the night, he had the satisfaction of knowing that while he might not have brought his master running, at least as far as those on the terrace of the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or were concerned, they couldn’t say they hadn’t been warned.

CHAPTER TWO

The day had started well enough. Perhaps, on reflection, a little too well. The high note which had been struck early on would have been hard enough to sustain under any circumstances. But after the football landed in Doucette’s cup of hot chocolat it had been downhill all the way.

At the time, the early morning walk along the beach, the combination of the sun, the sea and the sand had acted like a tonic. Pommes Frites had been in his element, dashing in and out of the water at every possible moment; taking pleasure out of presenting them with pieces of unwanted timber, sniffing rocks.

Having stumbled across a likely looking waterside café, they decided to take petit déjeuner