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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Monsieur Pamplemousse Series
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
According to the Director of Le Guide, France's premier gastronomic companion, it is high time his inspectors moved with the times and opened their ranks to the fairer sex. And who better to oversee their initiation than Monsieur Pamplemousse?However, when the Director, normally a model of rectitude, hints that on no account must the trainee be allowed to make the grade, Monsieur Pamplemousse is suitably outraged. His indignation lasts only until he hears her name. The Director is right. The lady in question is known to be utterly unscrupulous in the use of her considerable physical charms and her permanent engagement would cause unrest amongst the other inspectors, not to mention their wives.But there are other problems. Having blackmailed the Director into taking her on, why is she so insistent on staying at the Hotel des Dunes; an out-of-the-way establishment in the Gironde, unremarked even by the Camping Club of France, let alone by any of the major guides? Certainly not because of the food, as Monsieur Pamplemousse dejectedly discovers.And why, having created a scene because she didn't get the room she wanted, should one of her first acts be to photograph the dismal interior of the hotel?When Monsieur Pamplemousse's ever-faithful bloodhound Pommes Frites is seen ambling back to the hotel carrying a suspiciously large jambon, Monsieur Pamplemousse realises that once again he must stand firm against the forces of crime...
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MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE STANDS FIRM
Michael Bond
CONTENTS
1
OPERATION BALLPOINT
The scene would have appealed to Monet; and, given his eye for a pretty form and his unquenchable appetite for the good things in life, without doubt it would have inspired him to reach for the nearest palette and brushes with all possible speed, his beard quivering with barely suppressed excitement. It had all the ingredients for a masterpiece.
The occasion was the annual staff party given by Monsieur Henri Leclercq, Director of LeGuide, France’s oldest and most respected gastronomic bible. The setting was his summer residence near Deauville; the date, 15 July. It was a date which marked the start of the Season; a season of international bridge, theatre, golf tournaments, jazz concerts at the casino, and above all as far as the Director was concerned, six weeks of horse racing.
The party was an event much looked forward to by the staff, not so much for the delights of Deauville itself – but because the Director was a generous host and they knew that the food and the wine would be beyond reproach; the surroundings and the ambience such as would have assured it a top rating of three toques in their own publication had it been eligible. In short, it was a chance for everyone to indulge themselves at someone else’s expense.
The majority of the office staff had arrived in a specially chartered coach; by and large those who spent their days ‘on the road’ came by car as a matter of course; a few, like Monsieur and Madame Pamplemousse, had opted for the relative luxury of travelling by train.
The Director’s summer residence was inland from the sea, in a wooded area halfway between Deauville and Pont l’Evêque; convenient both for the airport and the autoroute to Paris, which could be reached in under two hours. Nestling in a pocket in the hills, the house was scarcely visible from the winding country lane which provided the one artery connecting it with the outside world. It was a veritable paradise: an immaculately kept garden of Eden contained within a few hectares of land.
Any tourists, having visited the fourteenth-century Romanesque church in the nearby village, and still preoccupied by the sight of its ancient stained-glass windows and collection of canvases by Jean Restout, might easily have missed the house altogether as they went on their way, enroute, perhaps, to one of the local cheese factories. But had they chanced to spy it through a gap in the hedge as they drove past, they could have been forgiven for assuming they had stumbled across a film company on location, or a freshly assembled kit of parts arranged for the benefit of a photographer working on the country issue of a glossy ideal home magazine.
The gravelled drive, entered via a pair of ornate, remotely controlled wrought-iron gates standing a little way back from the road, having wound its way down the hillside past weeping willows and a scattering of beech trees set in immaculately tonsured lawns, ended up as a large circular parking area outside a picturesque black and white half-timbered house of the sort normally encountered only in dreams or in house agents’ advertisements found in out-of-date magazines in dentists’ waiting-rooms. Bearing the inscription ‘price on application’, they had almost always ‘only just been taken off the market’ should anyone be bold enough to make further inquiries.
Between the house and an equally charming stable block of generous dimensions which served as a garage, there was a large patio dotted with garden furniture, the whiteness of which was offset by splashes of red from the mass of DanseduFeu roses climbing the wall behind.
As it made its way down the hill the drive passed a large brick and stone Norman dovecot to one side and on the other a stream with a white-painted wooden bridge which led nowhere, but looked as if it might The stream, in turn, cascaded over a waterfall and into a large pond on the surface of which there floated a variety of ducks. (Guilot, who for some reason knew about ducks, had a theory they had been bought by the architect via a mail-order catalogue; they were almost too perfect a collection to have arrived where they were simply by chance.)
Perfectionist that he was, the only change Monet might have made would have been to divert the stream away from the pond in order to provide suitably tranquil conditions for his beloved water lilies. Although he was probably aware, more than most people, that even in Paradise, one cannot have everything.
Clad in a white apron to protect his green corduroy trousers and tweed jacket from the splashes of recalcitrant fat, and sporting a tall chef’s toque on his head, the Director had been busy for most of the late morning and early afternoon dispensing hot saucisses,andouilles and boudinnoir from an enormous barbecue in the centre of the patio.
Brushed with melted butter and served with caramelised slices of apple, the grilled boudin had been most popular of all and he had been hard put to keep pace with the demand.
There had been pieces of leg of lamb on skewers too; pré-salé lamb from the sea-washed marshes of Mont St Michel.
The meal had started simply enough with freshly boiled shrimps – and for those whose preference ran towards a cold collation, to follow there had been a choice between lobster mayonnaise or thick slices of local ham baked in cider, accompanied by tomato salad and marinated cucumber, served with local bread and wedges of rich, yellow, Normandy butter.
There were those, and it has to be said they formed the majority, who were unable to make up their mind and found themselves accepting both offerings of the cold collation and then followed that with a selection from the griddle.
After a suitable gap there was Camembert, Livarot, and Pont l’Evêque cheese: all in a perfect state of ripeness – the Camembert, an unpasteurised version from a local farm; the Livarot, orange-coloured and served from its package of banded marsh grass; the Pont l’Evêque, soft and smooth in its golden rind.
And now, to complete the pastoral scene, a bevy of local girls, rosy-cheeked and dressed in traditional costume, appeared as if by magic carrying enormous earthenware platters, some piled high with freshly cooked bourdelots – apple dumplings wrapped in butter pastry – others with mounds of strawberries, and still more with bowls of thick cream the colour of ivory.
Cider – bonbére, the true Norman cider which remains still until poured, when it sparkles, frothless and pure as a mountain stream – had flowed freely throughout, although there was wine in variety available for those who preferred it to the fermented juice of the pommes. The Director was not one to stint his guests.
It had been a splendid feast. And now the after-effects were beginning to show. All available chairs on the patio were occupied, some clearly for the rest of the afternoon. Bernard was already fast asleep under a tree. Those who had gone so far as to bring tennis rackets, having mentally ear-marked the two courts at the rear of the house for an afternoon’s sport, were having second thoughts. A half-hearted game of croquet was in progress. Glandier, never one to let an opportunity slip by, was chatting to one of the serving girls. Any moment now he would be asking her if she would like to see one of his conjuring tricks. Madame Grante, swaying slightly from a surfeit of cider, watched disapprovingly from a distance. Others were setting off up the drive to explore the village.
Monsieur Pamplemousse decided it was a good thing the usual group photograph had been taken before lunch.
He looked for Doucette, but she was some distance away, engaged in animated conversation with the Director’s wife. Pommes Frites was busy clearing up behind the barbecue.
The Director, fresh from his ablutions, emerged from the kitchen, peered round the garden, then beckoned.
‘I wonder if I might have a word with you, Aristide?’
As he followed his host into the house, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but reflect that it was a rhetorical question. He could hardly have declined, and certainly the Director hadn’t left him any time to say ‘no’ even if he had wanted to.
He wondered idly what was in the wind. It struck him that his boss was wearing a slightly furtive air. His suspicion was confirmed a moment later when the Director, having led him into the drawing-room, excused himself for a moment while he went off to make certain as he put it ‘that they wouldn’t be disturbed’.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced around the room. The works of several minor Impressionists adorned the walls, the balanced composition of antique furniture, silverware and other artefacts reflected the quiet good taste of its owners: taste which was not only quiet but expensive too, if he was any judge. Loudier, who had been with LeGuide longer than most, was undoubtedly right in his theory that the Director had married into money. It was hard not to feel a touch of envy; and he would have been less than honest if he had said otherwise.
On the other hand he couldn’t picture living there himself. The Director moved easily in such surroundings. He was in his element. But had Monsieur Pamplemousse been asked which he would really prefer, his own or the Director’s way of life, he knew in his heart which he would choose.
He crossed the room and looked out of the window. The rich pile of the Aubusson carpet beneath his feet felt as soft as had the freshly manicured lawn outside; a lawn which he noted was rapidly emptying of guests.
He caught sight of Doucette on the far side, still walking with the Director’s wife, and he was about to open the French windows and call out when he heard a door open behind him.
The Director entered the room and as he came up behind Monsieur Pamplemousse and followed the direction of his gaze immediately withdrew into shadow, signalling his guest to do likewise.
‘I suggested to Chantal that she take Madame Pamplemousse to see the dovecot,’ he said, closing one of the curtains slightly. ‘It should keep them busy for a while. The history of the Norman dovecot dates back to Roman times.’
Catching Monsieur Pamplemousse’s eye, the Director made haste to justify his last remark.
‘Please don’t think for one moment that I wish to say something I would rather my wife didn’t overhear …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked up his ears still further. As an opening gambit the Director had assured himself of an audience. Guy de Maupassant could not have wished for a more riveting start to one of his stories.
‘What of Madame Pamplemousse, Monsieur?’ he inquired innocently. ‘Would she be interested were I to repeat what you have to say?’
‘You must answer that question yourself after I have told you, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director crossly. ‘I really cannot make these decisions for you. Speaking personally, I would err on the side of caution.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced out of the window again, but Doucette and the Director’s wife had already disappeared. Pommes Frites looked as though he was up to no good with the Director’s Borzoi behind some nearby bushes. One of his senses having been satisfied, he appeared to be more than ready to round things off by assuaging a second. Monsieur Pamplemousse was on the point of wondering if he should mention it when the matter was decided for him.
‘Pamplemousse, are you listening to me? I fear I do not have your undivided attention.’ Clearly, the Director was in no mood to be diverted from whatever it was he had on his mind.
‘I was about to say, Aristide, that we live in changing times. Only the other day I saw a young girl driving an autobus through the streets of Paris, and a very good job she was making of it, too.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse waited patiently. Clearly there was more to come. The Director would hardly have brought him indoors in order to discuss the merits or otherwise of female bus drivers.
‘It is getting harder and harder to differentiate between the sexes.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded his agreement. ‘It is most apparent, Monsieur, in the area of lestoilettes. I often have to study the pictures on the doors most carefully. Then, more often than not when you go inside you discover they are all one and the same anyway.’
The Director grunted impatiently. ‘That is not quite what I meant, Pamplemousse.
‘I meant that increasingly one finds women doing work which in the past has always been regarded as man’s province.’
‘Like coal mining, Monsieur?’
‘No, Pamplemousse, I do not mean coal mining, although doubtless in some parts of the world – Russia, parexemple, it is already an established fact. I am thinking of nearer home.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter. ‘But we already have a good record in that respect, Monsieur. Old Rambaud on the gate was grumbling about it only the other day. Things have gone to the other extreme. According to him even the office cat is female. At a rough guess I would say the female staff in the offices of LeGuide already outweigh the males by some ten to one.’
‘Ah, Pamplemousse,’ the Director looked at him triumphantly, glad to have got his point over at last. ‘In the offices that is so, but what of those on the road – the Inspectors? Is it not time we had a female Inspector?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked dubious. ‘What of the others, Monsieur? How will they feel about it?’ He couldn’t picture Truffert taking kindly to the idea for a start. It was rumoured that he’d only become an Inspector in order to escape from his wife. LeGuide was one of the last bastions of male chauvinism – at least as far as the Inspectors were concerned. In many ways it was the nearest equivalent in France to an Englishman’s club.
Crossing the room, the Director began nervously to rearrange some flowers in an enormous bowl standing on a table in front of the fireplace. ‘For the time being, Aristide, there is no need for the others to know.’
‘I fail to see the point, Monsieur. Surely they will have to be told sooner or later.’
‘Not necessarily, Pamplemousse.’
‘Comment?’
Flowers were rearranged yet again. The Director looked as though he was beginning to wish he hadn’t started on them.
‘That, Aristide, is where you come in.’
‘I, Monsieur?’
‘There is really no point in my telling the others, if at the end of her attachment the lady in question fails to make the grade. They will all have been upset for nothing.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse began to look even more dubious. ‘But supposing, Monsieur … just supposing, she does make the grade … and there is no reason why she shouldn’t. The number of women chefs in France is growing …’ Despite his initial misgivings, he found himself warming to the thought of there being a female Inspector. It would certainly add a bit of sparkle to the annual group photograph.
‘Why should she fail, Monsieur?’
‘Because, Pamplemousse, at the end of her attachment you will make absolutely certain that she does.’
‘I, Monsieur? Why me?’
The Director glared at him. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t keep saying “I, Monsieur?” It not only makes you sound like a parrot, but one singularly bereft of a working vocabulary.
‘I say you, Pamplemousse, because it is you to whom she will be attached – figuratively speaking, of course.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stiffened and turned to leave. There was a point where lines had to be drawn and this was it. ‘No, Monsieur.Pardonnez-moi … mais…’
‘Asseyez-vous, Aristide. Asseyez-vous, there’s a good chap.’
Motioning Monsieur Pamplemousse towards a deep leather armchair, the Director reached for a decanter and poured a generous helping of golden brown liquid into a glass. It was dark with age.
‘Try some of this. I am not normally much of a one for Calvados, but when in Normandy … It is a Les “Aieux” L’AigleMillésimé 1947. I think you will like it.’ He filled a second glass and downed it in a single swallow.
‘I have a particular reason for asking. I know that in view of your past reputation I may be playing with fire, but I need someone of discretion … a man of the world. A man who will understand the problem and act accordingly.’
‘I understand the problem, Monsieur. I can see the addition of a femme to what has always been a domain masculin will pose many problems, but as you said earlier, times change, and they need not be insurmountable. In any case, I have to say that to prejudge a poor innocent girl in this way would be grossly unfair.’
‘Life is often grossly unfair, Pamplemousse. Life, for many people, is unfair from the moment they are born. As for the person concerned being “innocent” I doubt if she knows the meaning of the word. You might say that in many respects Elsie has little cause to feel hard done by, but when it comes to the allocation of “innocence” she may well feel she was given short measure.’
‘Elsie?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. A warning bell began to sound in the deep recesses of his mind.
‘Did you say her name is Elsie, Monsieur?’
The Director nodded unhappily.
‘Not,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse relentlessly, ‘the same Elsie who for a brief period was in your employ? The English aupair who cooked boeuf rôti the night Doucette and I came to dinner? Boeufrôti with a pudding known as Yorkshire?’
The Director looked even more ill at ease. He replenished his glass. ‘You remember her?’
‘I could hardly forget her, Monsieur. She cooked like a dream, but she was also the stuff that dreams are made of.’
‘An unlikely, but devastating combination, eh, Aristide?’
‘Oui,Monsieur. And I have to tell you straight away that the answer is non.’
To say that Monsieur Pamplemousse remembered Elsie was the understatement of the year. After their brief encounter he had lain awake for the rest of the week thinking of very little else. Freudian dreams involving Elsie had filled his sleep. Elsie dressed in the uniform of a water Inspector, Elsie dressed as a swimming Instructor, Elsie in oilskins rescuing him from drowning …
The Director took a precautionary look into the garden. When he next spoke it was with a lowered voice.
‘Aristide, that girl is totally without scruples. Why she should suddenly evince a desire to become an Inspector heaven alone knows. But she is determined to get her way, and if she doesn’t my life here will not bear thinking about …’ With a wave of his hand which embraced that part of his estate which could be seen through the French windows he downed his second glass of Calvados.
‘She is threatening you, Monsieur?’
‘Not in so many words. She has simply intimated that if there is a problem in granting her request perhaps she should visit me here so that we can discuss the matter in more detail. Can you picture it?
‘You have no idea what life in a small village is like. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. In Paris you can be anonymous. In the country, traffic through the kitchen is often worse than the Champs Elysées on a Friday evening. Then there is the Curé to be considered. MonsieurleCuré is one of the old school, steeped in the ways of a bygone age. The world with its changing mores and behaviour patterns has passed him by.’
The Director gave a shudder. ‘I can hear the sound of her high heels on the cobblestones as she goes to see him.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had a sudden thought ‘Could you not return to Paris for a few days, Monsieur? You could deal with the matter there.’
‘And miss the start of the season? It is short enough as it is.’
‘There must be other beaches, Monsieur. Le Touquet …’
The Director gave him a glassy stare. ‘One does not come to Deauville in order to disport oneself on the beach, Pamplemousse.’
Although he didn’t actually physically recoil at the idea, clearly he was distancing himself from it as far as he possibly could.
Monsieur Pamplemousse had spoken without thinking. On further consideration he doubted if the Director had ever been on a beach in his life. He certainly couldn’t picture him with his trousers rolled up to the knees making sand-castles. Paddling as a form of pleasure would have by-passed him. Nor would he take kindly to Pommes Frites shaking himself over all and sundry after returning from a swim. He decided to change the subject.
‘May I ask what happened with Elsie, Monsieur?’
‘Nothing, Aristide. I swear on my copy of LeGuide that nothing untoward took place. What was intended merely as an encouraging pat while she went about her work, an avuncular gesture as she applied her feather duster to the chandelier in the hall, was grossly misconstrued. Or, to put it in another way, I suspect Elsie chose, for her own good reasons, to misconstrue it, filing the incident away in her mind for future use should the occasion demand. That occasion has arrived. Elsie wishes to be an Inspector.’
‘But surely, Monsieur, if she brings the matter up, then it will simply be a matter of her word against yours.’
‘Exactly, Pamplemousse. There, in your inimitable way, you have put your finger on the nub of the problem.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse fell silent.
‘I have learned over the years, Aristide, that when it comes to a husband’s word against that of another woman – whatever her age or circumstances or disposition, then it is the latter’s word the wife invariably believes. When it involves a girl like Elsie, the dice are loaded from the very beginning. Nature has endowed her with qualities which give rise to immediate suspicion on the distaff side.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but be aware of a certain fellow feeling. ‘But why me, Monsieur? Why not someone else? Bernard – or Glandier. Either of them would probably jump at the chance. Glandier especially.’
‘Exactly, Aristide. And in so doing they would undoubtedly fall for Elsie hook line and sinker. Her little finger would be the least she would twist them around. They might even come up with a recommendation for her permanent employment. I agree that in normal circumstances pairing her with you would not be the happiest combination, but these are not normal circumstances.’
‘What shall I tell my wife, Monsieur?’ He couldn’t picture Doucette taking kindly to the news that he had a female attached to him, and if she ever discovered it was Elsie she would be down on him like a pile of bricks.
‘Have no fear, Aristide, I have thought of that.’ Sensing victory at last the Director reached for his wallet, opened it, and withdrew a somewhat dog-eared photograph. ‘This is a picture of the daughter of a cousin of mine. As you can see she was not exactly in the front row when looks were given out. You can take it as an insurance policy. Should any enquiries be made chez Pamplemousse you can say this is your attachment.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse examined the picture. The Director was right. ‘Barrels must have been scraped, Monsieur.’
‘Exactement. If you must tell Madame Pamplemousse, then I suggest you choose a suitable moment and then arrange for her to come across the photograph by “accident”. I’m sure I need hardly tell an old hand like yourself how to play your cards.’
While the Director was talking, Monsieur Pamplemousse took out his pen. The photograph was printed on matt paper and it was a simple matter to add a few spots in strategic places. In a matter of moments what had been merely unattractive became positively repellent. Trigaux in the art department would have been proud of him. He felt sorely tempted to add the beginnings of a moustache, but decided it might be overdoing things.
The Director rubbed his hands together briskly. ‘Excellent, Pamplemousse. Excellent You have missed your vocation.
‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. I must say that in some ways I envy you the task.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse brightened. ‘You are welcome to go in my place, Monsieur,’ he said, clutching at straws. ‘In fact, it might be a very good idea. Then no one can accuse you of partiality.’
‘Impossible, Aristide. Impossible! It is the first of the season’s important race meetings tomorrow. Elsie arrives at Bordeaux airport on the afternoon flight. You will need to be there by sixteen-thirty and as you know it is a long drive from Paris.’
‘Bordeaux!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t remember when he had last visited the west coast of France. ‘It is a long time since I tasted the delights of Michel Guérard at Eugénie les Bains, Monsieur. They say he has gone from strength to strength.’
The Director gave a grunt. ‘I am afraid, Pamplemousse, you will have to rely on the opinion of others for the time being. Les Prés d’Eugénie is not on your itinerary.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to conceal his disappointment. ‘Ah, perhaps Monsieur is thinking of Au Bon Coin at Mimizan. Mimizan itself is like an abandoned film set, but the lake beside which the restaurant stands is very beautiful and I am told that the small island which adjoins the hotel has now been laid out as a garden … as for the food …’
‘No, Pamplemousse, I do not have Au Bon Coin in mind either. Or rather, Elsie does not. Her initial demands, I have to say, are surprisingly modest.
‘She has expressed a desire to explore the coastal area around Arcachon. Quite why she wishes to go there I do not know, I suspect an ulterior motive, but who am I to deny her wish? It has the advantage of being relatively unspoiled.’
‘It has the corresponding disadvantage, Monsieur, of being relatively unencumbered with restaurants of note. As I recall, Stock Pots are minimal.’
‘All the more reason to go there, Pamplemousse. It will be a challenge for you; something to get your teeth into.’
It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that in the circumstances the last phrase was singularly inappropriate. Offhand, he could think of many other places he would stand more chance of finding something worth while to sink his teeth into.
‘Elsie has even given me the name of an hotel near Arcachon where she wishes to stay – the Hôtel des Dunes. Unfortunately it doesn’t appear to be listed in our records, or in any other guide come to that, so I am unable to tell you much about it. However, accommodation has been arranged. You can use it as a base for a week while you explore the area. I told Elsie she could have that amount of time in which to prove herself and she seemed reasonably satisfied. The rest is in your hands.’
Recognising defeat, Monsieur Pamplemousse rose from his chair. ‘I will do my best, Monsieur, insofar as my conscience will allow. I cannot guarantee the result, but in the meantime I will of course report back to you on a regular basis.’
‘No, no! Pamplemousse.’ The Director looked agitated. ‘I have gone to great pains to make certain Chantal knows nothing whatsoever about my plans. As far as she is concerned Elsie went back to laGrandeBretagne for good. It must remain that way. Absolute secrecy is the order of the day.’
‘But, Monsieur …’
The Director held up his hand. ‘Discrétionabsolue, Pamplemousse!’
‘I understand what you are saying, Monsieur, but supposing … just supposing something goes wrong. I may need to telephone for further instructions.’
‘Things must not go wrong, Pamplemousse. As for telephoning me here, that is out of the question. It is quite within the bounds of possibility that either by accident or design Chantal could pick up an extension receiver and overhear our conversation, then where would I be? Her suspicions would be aroused on the instant.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter for a moment or two. The Director was right in his last remark. He wouldn’t normally have any reason for telephoning. The Director’s wife would smell a rat straight away if she caught them talking.
‘In that case, Monsieur,’ he said, tapping his teeth with the pen, ‘we must think up a reason. Perhaps I could leave something behind when we go today. Something precious …’
The Director clapped his hands together. ‘Good thinking, Aristide. You have it right there in your hand!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. ‘But that is my favourite Cross pen, Monsieur. I shall be lost without it. Besides, it will be a bad omen I am sure.’
‘Nonsense, Aristide. In a week’s time you shall have it back. If all goes well you can have a dozen pens.’
Now that the idea had been suggested, the Director entered into the scheme of things with all his old enthusiasm. Without waiting for a reply he took the pen from Monsieur Pamplemousse and stuffed it down the side of the chair.
‘No one will find it there unless they are looking specially.
‘We must find a code-word. What is the English word for stylo? Ballpoint; we will call the whole thing Operation Ballpoint. Should you run into trouble all you need do is say the word and I shall be on the qui-vive immediately.’
Without further ado the Director picked up a small antique hand-bell. ‘I will ring for some tea. No doubt you and your wife will be wanting to get back to Paris and have a reasonably early night in view of your journey tomorrow. After tea I will arrange for a car to take you to the train.’
‘It’s a lovely evening,’ said Doucette, as they disembarked outside the gare in Deauville. ‘Why don’t we go for a walk and catch a later train?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his wife in surprise. It was a long time since she had suggested such a thing. Normally, she would have been only too anxious to get home.
Pommes Frites decided matters for them. Pommes Frites could smell the sea, and in Pommes Frites’ opinion anyone who went to the sea-side and didn’t go on the beach needed their head examined. Without further ado he set off in the general direction of the harbour.
The tide was in when they reached the yacht basin. On the Trouville side of the Touques estuary they could see boats of the fishing fleet being made ready for the night’s work. In less than twelve hours’ time they would be back again and the little fish market alongside the quai would be bustling with activity.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wished he’d thought to bring his camera with him. It was easy to see why the light had attracted the early Impressionists, although what they would have made of the hideous new high-rise apartments which blocked the view of the sea on the Deauville side was anybody’s guess.
Crossing the little pedestrian walkway which spanned the harbour entrance gates, they skirted the port until they reached the Promenade des Planches – the boardwalk made famous in the film UnHommeetuneFemme.
Pommes Frites galloped on ahead, blissfully unaware of notices reminding owners of dogs that anything untoward must happen below that area which would be covered by the incoming tide. It didn’t leave him much room for manoeuvre.
‘Aristide, is there anything going on between you and MonsieurleDirecteur?’
Lost in his own thoughts, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. ‘Why do you ask, chérie?’
‘Apparently he has been acting very strangely over the past few days. Besides, he made it perfectly obvious he wanted to get together with you on his own. Chantal knows even less about dovecots than I do.’ The fact that Doucette was suddenly on Christian-name terms with the Director’s wife did not escape Monsieur Pamplemousse.
