Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat (10 page)

The door opened and JayCee entered. He stared at Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘What are you?’ he demanded. ‘Some kind of water freak? You’re worse than Boniface …’

‘Cleanliness,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse virtuously, ‘is next to godliness.’

‘Yeah? Remind me to get you a peg for the halo.’ JayCee looked around suspiciously. ‘I thought I heard voices …’

Voices?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse pretended he was having trouble with his shirt buttons, but he needn’t have bothered. JayCee’s mind was already elsewhere.

‘How come you get your décor changed regularly?’ he demanded.

Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced up, fearing the worst, but as ever Pommes Frites was proving more than equal to the situation.

Although not blessed with hindsight in the strictly literal sense, he must have brought an element of canine extra-sensory perception into play, for his summing up of the situation was faultless; his pose would undoubtedly have been an award-winning entry in any taxidermists’ convention.

JayCee took a closer look. ‘Reversible trophies! What’ll they dream up next?

‘You know something? I’ve only got one complaint. They shoulda stuffed it with the tail down instead of stuck up in the air, right? It’s like having a guy with only one eye follow you around the room wherever you go …’

Fearing that JayCee might take it into his head to probe still further, Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily placed himself in front of Pommes Frites.

‘Cyclops?’ he ventured.

‘No. Like I said, it was a guy with only one eye. Lon Chaney junior, that’s it. It was in a film.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave up.

‘No luck with Hunn?’ asked JayCee.

‘The last time I saw her she was reading a book,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘She was?’ JayCee could hardly have looked more surprised if he had heard an announcement heralding the Second Coming. ‘All by herself?’

‘Alone and unaided,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse truthfully. ‘
Pardonnez-moi
…’ Taking the bull by the horns, he removed the last of his clothing.

‘Yeah!’ JayCee took the point. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I guess maybe you got a point. There’s nothing else to do. If you see Hunn, tell her I’m taking a shower.’

The door had hardly closed when a hand appeared round the side of the shower curtain, ‘Come on in,’ hissed Abeille. ‘The water’s fine.’ She sounded her old self again.

But Monsieur Pamplemousse was already starting to get dressed. He had other things on his mind.

Abeille gave a pout. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a headache.’

‘Worse,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. Having made an abortive attempt at pulling Pommes Frites free, he realised he was starting to ache all over, but there was no point in elaborating.

Opening up
Le Guide
’s emergency case he worked swiftly, removing the items he needed, arranging them in a neat row along the dressing table; one tiny folding plastic cape – a miracle of twentieth-century petro-chemical compactness; a small transparent pack containing a dark substance – there was an ‘eat by’ date stamped on the bottom, but time had eroded it; a multi-purpose knife, and a tiny folding saw. He doubted if Monsieur Hippolyte Duval would have approved of the use to which he was about to put the last three items, but it was a case of needs must.

‘You know one of the most depressing things in this world?’ Abeille appeared behind him. ‘Wanting to dry yourself and finding all you’ve got is a wet towel from the last time you took a shower.’

Having answered her own question, she stared across at Pommes Frites. ‘JayCee’s right. That’s creepy. Can’t you do something?’

Recognising his master’s touch, Pommes Frites obligingly lowered his tail.

‘I tell you the second most depressing thing,’ said
Abeille, as she arranged some pillows to support Pommes Frites’ feet. ‘That’s talking to yourself.’

She peered over Monsieur Pamplemousse’s shoulder as he began sawing at the black material. ‘Are you taking up model-making or something?’

‘I am making a wedge for the door,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘so that you will be safe while I am away.’

‘You’re leaving me?’ said Abeille plaintively. ‘Like this?’

‘I have to if you want clothes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, there are things to do. I will be as quick as I can.’

‘Great! Big deal!’ Abeille glanced towards the open case. ‘Do you have any other goodies in there? Like a bar of candy?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘That will only make matters worse. It is the last thing he needs.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of Pommes Frites,’ said Abeille. ‘I was thinking of me. I haven’t had any breakfast yet. I’d sell my soul for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.’

‘You are welcome to these.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse pointed to a small pile of dried prune shavings, the result of several minutes’ concentrated sawing.

‘I cannot recommend them. It is what is known as “Compressed Emergency Rations”.’

‘Compressed’ was a masterpiece of understatement.
It had been one of the original items in the kit, a throwback from the days when transport was in its infancy and inspectors sometimes found themselves stranded for days on end. One particularly bad winter Didier had been marooned in the Alps and had broken two teeth on his. He hadn’t been able to face a prune since.

Abeille peered out through the remaining porthole. ‘Looks like we’re getting near another lock.’

‘Good.’ While she was otherwise engaged. Monsieur Pamplemousse emptied the contents of his washbag over the dressing table and began replacing them with the things he needed. Opening his case again, he took out a large Jiffy bag, measured it against the parrot for size, then wrote an address on the front.

‘See you …’ Abeille blew him a kiss as he made to leave.

Monsieur Pamplemousse placed the completed wedge on the floor by the door. ‘Don’t forget to use it.’

‘If things get desperate,’ said Abeille, ‘I may even eat it.’

Taking advantage of the fact that
Le Creuset
was still working her way up the valley, which meant he would be temporarily out of sight of the other passengers when they entered the lock, Monsieur Pamplemousse unfolded the cape and slipped it over his head; it was better than nothing. He selected a bicycle from a pile on the sun deck, wiped the
saddle dry, then carried it over his shoulder up an iron-runged ladder to the unrailed roof area above the saloon and waited while the boat came to a complete stop before stepping off.

Martin was already in deep conversation with the lock-keeper. When he saw Monsieur Pamplemousse he waved him over.

‘There is a message for you. Will you please telephone your office. It’s marked
URGENT
.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. It was the last thing he wanted to hear. On the other hand … The lock-keeper was already leading the way into his cottage. Neither he nor his wife looked best pleased at the interruption to their routine.

‘You will make sure you reverse the charges.’ It was a command rather than a request.

‘
Oui
.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse called the operator and asked for a PCV call to Paris. While he waited he added some coins to a glass jar standing alongside the phone. The atmosphere eased a little.

The Director must have been sitting with his hand at the ready, for he answered almost immediately.

‘Pamplemousse! How are you? Getting plenty of sunshine and rest, I trust.’

‘It is pouring with rain,
Monsieur
, and I am about to set off on a
bicyclette
with a dead parrot.’

‘Good. Good.’ Clearly the Director was concentrating more on his own problems than other people’s. Enquiries were a mere formality.

‘And how is Pommes Frites?’

‘He is stuck in a porthole.’

There was a slight pause as his words sunk in. ‘This is not very heartening news, Pamplemousse. Do I take it that your voyage is not an unqualified success?’

‘It has had its problems,
Monsieur
, but I am dealing with them as fast as they arise.’

‘Excellent! Excellent! In that case, I am sure you won’t mind if I burden you with one more. It concerns Chantal’s aunt, Madame Ambert.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse held back the response he’d been about to make and awaited developments.

‘I understand you have yet to make contact …’

‘I was not aware,
Monsieur
, of any obligation on my part to do so. You simply suggested it would be a good idea should the opportunity arise. So far that hasn’t happened.’

‘Chantal is very upset, Aristide. She was hoping you might effect an introduction yesterday evening.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse fell silent. Suddenly it all began to fit into place; the look Madame Leclercq had given him after his accident in the Boulevard Haussman; the way she had momentarily held his hand; the haste with which the trip had been organised, as though every moment counted; the Director’s insistence on secrecy. It followed a not unfamiliar pattern.

‘Do I take it,
Monsieur
, that there are reasons
other than re-designing
Le Guide
’s logo for our being here? Pommes Frites will not be pleased if he feels he is being taken advantage of unnecessarily.’

The Director gave an audible sigh. ‘It was not my idea, Pamplemousse, I assure you. I fought against it, but Chantal wouldn’t listen. Unfortunately fate stepped in. I had already been discussing my thoughts with her. Our chance encounter in the Boulevard Haussman set the seal. The die was cast. It all goes back to that time when you came to her rescue in St George-sur-Lie. She has held you in high esteem ever since.’

‘You mean that strange affair of the aunt who stumbled across all those aphrodisiacs,
Monsieur
? I remember it well. Have you heard from her lately?’

Realising the lock-keeper’s wife was displaying more than a passing interest in his end of the conversation, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned away.
Le Creuset
had already moved out of the lock and was taking on water at a separate mooring just outside.

Doubtless the Director was telling the truth when he said the prime object of the exercise was as he had described it in his office, but …

‘What is it you wish me to do,
Monsieur
?’

‘Chantal would look upon it as a great favour if you could find time to visit her aunt. She is in need of help … things have deteriorated since we last spoke … there has been an incident …’

‘An incident,
Monsieur
? You mean last night, at the pageant?’

‘This morning … an incident at the winery.’

‘You use the word “incident”,
Monsieur
. Do you mean an accident?’

‘No, Pamplemousse, I mean an incident. An accident is an unpremeditated happening. The word incident implies malice aforethought. The police have been informed, but there are things they do not,
must
not know. Things that are none of their business. That is where I hope you will come in, with your vast experience in these matters …’

‘What matters,
Monsieur
?’

‘Someone has been found in a wine press …’

‘Squashed?’ It seemed an obvious, yet not unreasonable question.

‘Not irreparably. Fortunately some object or other got in the way before that could happen, but the poor fellow has been taken to hospital in a severe state of shock. He is under heavy sedation.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to suggest that it might have added body to the wine. Clearly the chief was in no mood for cheap jokes.

‘Where is Madame Leclercq’s aunt now,
Monsieur
?’

‘She is at the winery.’

‘Tell her I will telephone as soon as possible. There are a few things I must attend to first, but …’

‘Thank you, Aristide. You are a good fellow.’ For once the Director sounded truly grateful. Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help reflecting that he probably had good reason to be. Madame Leclercq
was blessed with an abundance of charm, but he wouldn’t like to stand in her way if she had her mind set on something.

As he rode off into the rain Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced back over his shoulder towards
Le Creuset
. Colonel Massingham was still giving his lecture. Pommes Frites was watching his master’s departure through the porthole. He didn’t look too unhappy. Doubtless a passing rabbit would provide him with the necessary impetus to wriggle free if and when he felt like it. For the time being at least his rear end was in the dry; which was more than Monsieur Pamplemousse could say for his own. A trickle of rain was already running down behind the collar of his cape.

Abeille waved from the adjoining porthole. He returned it.

The curtains in the next cabin remained tightly drawn. He wondered if Mrs Massingham had managed to find all her pearls. A little way along the towpath he passed the spot where her
culottes
had landed; a tiny patch of white amongst the reeds and too far away to be rescued even if he had felt inclined to try.

Head down, his eyes firmly fixed on the waterlogged towpath ahead, Monsieur Pamplemousse pedalled on his way. He had other, more important things in mind.

Some twenty minutes later Monsieur Pamplemousse reappeared along the towpath, heading back the way he had come. As he had feared,
Le Creuset
was nowhere to be seen.

There was no sign of the lock-keeper either, or his wife. Their cottage door was shut, which wasn’t altogether surprising. Apart from the one launch, he had seen no other sign of movement on the canal that morning.

Having no great desire to ask if he might use their phone again, Monsieur Pamplemousse pedalled on his way, aiming to stop at the next place where he could make a call in reasonable privacy.

Drawing a blank on Abeille’s clothes had been an unforeseen set-back. He was positive he had found the place where they had landed; the tree
and its surroundings were etched on his memory like a bad dream. Either they had been blown off the branch by the wind, or someone had got there first. If only Pommes Frites hadn’t got himself stuck in the porthole he might have helped search the surrounding fields. But Pommes Frites wasn’t with him. Pommes Frites knew which side his bread was buttered.

Perseverance received its just reward at Gissey-sur-Ouche. Propping his
bicyclette
up against a bus stop which boasted a telephone kiosk, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked his way gingerly over a manhole cover which had been forced out of its mounting by the heavy rain and dialled the number he had been given.

The Director had beaten him to it. Madame Ambert was expecting his call and had made arrangements to take him out to lunch.

‘It will be easier to talk. Besides, I feel I owe you a proper meal after last night’s travesty.’ A car would pick him up.

Monsieur Pamplemousse was too wet to argue, and a bus shelter was better than nothing for the time being. Having described where he was, he hung up and took stock of his surroundings.

Alongside a timetable, which occupied most of a glass-encased notice board, there was a printed warning issued by the
Direction des Services Vétérinaires
. Anti-rabies tablets had been laid
down near known habitats of foxes in the area.
DO NOT TOUCH
and
DO NOT GATHER
was the message they were trying to get across. The same body was carrying out a
dératinisation
in the district. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that nature was probably doing the job for them. Any self-respecting rat would be miles away by now, swimming for its life.

Taking advantage of a momentary easing of the rain, he set out on a brief voyage of exploration. It lasted all of five minutes. The high spot was a doorknocker made from the bleached skull of some unidentifiable animal. Having got as much mileage as he could out of it, Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to the bus shelter.

A notice from the
Militaire Territorial
warned of manoeuvres being carried out using
Armes de Guerre
. Bugles would be used to sound the retreat. Poor devils. He didn’t fancy their lot.

A
Festival des Arts
was being held next month.

Somewhat improbably, strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ came from a radio in a nearby house. It was almost as bad as seeing a Papa Noël in July.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed out at the bleak scene and wondered what he was doing there. He toyed with the idea of phoning the Director back and saying enough was enough, but he knew he wouldn’t.

A black Mercedes 300E turned off the main road and drew up beside him. Fabrice Delamain climbed
out. He was wearing a brown leather jacket over an open-neck checked shirt and belted corduroy trousers; a very different image to the one he’d last seen in Beaune.

Waving aside Monsieur Pamplemousse’s protests he opened the boot of the car, loaded up the cycle, then held open the passenger door.

Monsieur Pamplemousse removed his cape and made himself comfortable. ‘You must have driven like the wind.’

Monsieur Delamain climbed in beside him and executed an immaculate U-turn.

‘I was in Dijon. The lights were green.’ As they drove back up to the D108 he picked up a telephone and dialled a number.

‘I am just leaving Gissey … would you like us to go straight to the restaurant?

‘
D’accord
. We will be there in thirty minutes.’

Fabrice Delamain drove fast, but cleanly and with precision, using the five speed gearbox effortlessly, as though it were an extension of his right arm.

Monsieur Pamplemousse immediately felt relaxed and at home with him. He wondered if he should broach the subject of the troubles chez Ambert, but decided against it. They would come out soon enough. He settled instead on discussing the problems of wine-making generally. It was always good to hear an expert’s point of view.

‘You must be cursing this weather.’

Fabrice shrugged. ‘
C’est la vie
. You learn to live with it. Nature doesn’t offer a choice. It is also a challenge.’

‘What is the saying?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hoped he had got it right. ‘August makes the grape. September makes the wine.’

‘We have many sayings in Burgundy. “
C’est l’homme qui fait la différence
” is another; “It is man who makes the difference”. That appeals to me more. It massages my ego.

‘Wine making happens only once a year and at that time everything must be right; the weather, the temperature, the ripeness of the fruit, the precise time of picking, the correct development of the yeasts, the temperature of the must – whether to heat it or cool it; you are lucky if you get seven out of ten. There are a thousand and one decisions to be made and they all have to be right, otherwise a year’s work is wasted. Since the official date for the start of picking generally coincides with the autumn equinox, which often heralds a change in the weather, speed is of the essence.’

Keeping watch out of the window to his left as they drove parallel to the Canal de Bourgogne, Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he saw
Le Creuset
at one point, but it came and went in a flash. It was so easy to get used to the slower pace of life – it made the adjustment back to normal that much harder.

‘In this business there are many things to worry
about besides the weather,’ said Fabrice. ‘People think we just plant vines, pick the grapes and turn them into wine. Believe me, it is an all-the-year round occupation. January is the only quiet month; a time for taking stock. We have to decide how many barrels to order – usually about twenty per cent are replaced each year. We now have our own wood from the Fôret de Bertranges, and this has to be cut and then put aside and dried for two years before it goes to be made into barrels.

‘In February there is pruning to be done – everywhere you see smoke from burning cuttings – and people look forward to the arrival of the travelling Still.

‘March is the time for ploughing; there is grafting to be done and the first of the fertilisers go down. In April we carry out the planting of new vines. All through the spring and during the summer there is weeding, fertilising, and more pruning. June is the really critical time, when the flowering takes place. That is when we hope for calm weather. Time is measured by the seasons, and each season has its problems.’

‘You have been in it all your life?’

‘And my father before me, and his father before that.’

‘Always at Clos d’Ambert?’

‘Always at Clos d’Ambert.’

‘You must have seen many changes.’

‘Many.’ Fabrice turned off the main road, crossed the canal by a narrow bridge, slackened speed slightly as he drove through a small, deserted village, then headed towards the hills. ‘When I was small there were fruit trees amongst the vines and at harvest time there was always a vast team of pickers. Now the trees have all been uprooted to allow free passage for the harvesting machine. We still use a few pickers but one machine can do the work of twenty. I have seen horses exchanged for tractors. Tractors are fine, but they are much more tiring; horses went at their own pace, but they knew every inch of the land; they did most of the work for you.

‘In the old days we used to pick the grapes when the leaves started to change colour; now the vines are better cared for and the date is decided by analysis of the sugar and acid content of the grapes. When I first began, they were still trodden by humans – a century ago it was known as the
vigneron
’s annual bath time. Now we use a Bucher pneumatic press which has a throughput that is hard to keep pace with. We ferment the juice in computerised stainless steel vats …’

He broke off as they drove past a collection of stone houses, almost too small to be called a village, turned in through some imposing wrought iron gates, then followed a winding gravelled path leading to a larger building standing astride a narrow stream. A goat with yellowing teeth supervised their arrival
over a neighbouring hedge as they drew up alongside another, older Mercedes. Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. It said 14.00. The journey had taken thirty minutes exactly.

His spirits rose as he saw the sign over the entrance. Taste buds began to make themselves felt. He remembered the hotel from an entry in
Le Guide
. The restaurant had two Stock Pots. Guillot still talked of the time when he had stayed there overnight and had caught a trout from his bedroom window. He had eaten it for lunch and he spoke in hushed tones of the memory. It was he who had recommended it for a second Stock Pot.

‘You are not coming in?’

Fabrice shook his head. ‘I have work to do.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. ‘Could you possibly do me a favour?’ He handed Fabrice the package containing the parrot. ‘Could you arrange for this to be sent by Chronopost? I want it to get there as soon as possible.’

Fabrice glanced at the address on the label. ‘I will do even better. I am on my way to Beaune. I will take it for you.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. ‘In that case I suggest you simply leave it. There is no need to say who gave it to you.

‘
À bientôt
.’ They exchanged goodbyes.

As he walked towards the hotel, Monsieur Pamplemousse saw the reflection of the Mercedes’
brake lights in the plate glass doors. They flicked on and off briefly as Fabrice Delamain negotiated the entrance gates. The plate glass doors parted as he drew near.

Madame Ambert was already seated when he entered the restaurant. She was talking to a man in white overalls Monsieur Pamplemousse assumed to be
le patron
.

He glanced round the room as the
maître d’hôtel
greeted him and led him towards the table. There were three other couples eating, all seated some distance apart. They looked as though they were nearing the end of their meal. All the same, it was good that it wasn’t the kind of restaurant where everyone was grouped together for the sake of the management’s convenience, come what may.

‘I hope I haven’t kept you.’

‘On the contrary,’ Madame Ambert held out her hand. ‘I am surprised you got here so quickly.’

‘Monsieur Delamain is a man of his word, but the weather didn’t help.’

The chef made a face. ‘The weather is affecting everything,
Monsieur. Bon appétit
.’ Nodding to Monsieur Pamplemousse, he left the room.

A waiter appeared with a silver tray of
amuse gueules
; some tiny sausages in pastry and some
gougères
– cheese-flavoured sticks of
choux
pastry – golden-brown and crisp.

‘I hope you will forgive me,’ said Madame Ambert,
‘but since it is late I have asked André to surprise us. I think you will not be disappointed.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the notebook he kept hidden inside a pocket in his right trouser leg. ‘In that case I hope you will forgive
me
if I make notes.’ It was an opportunity too good to miss.

Two glasses of champagne arrived at the table.

‘With the compliments of Monsieur Delamain.’ The
sommelier
bowed and withdrew.

Monsieur Delamain had clearly been busy with his mobile telephone again.

‘You did not wish him to join us for lunch?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt perhaps he should have insisted.

Madame Ambert shook her head. ‘I doubt if he would have wanted to. Fabrice has been a naughty boy; he and a few others. It is a very close-knit community, but I have no doubt who was the ringleader. I should be very cross with him.’

‘But you are not?’

‘I have known Fabrice all my life. We were practically brought up together. I don’t know what I would do without him. He is more than a
régisseur
– a manager – he is my guardian angel.’

It was a simple statement of fact. Monsieur Pamplemousse decided not to probe any further. The fact that Madame Ambert had suggested meeting on neutral territory suggested a certain reserve; a
desire to get to know the person she was dealing with before lowering her guard.

One of the kitchen staff was fishing about with a net in an outside tank permanently fed by the stream – another addition since Guillot’s day; gaining a second Stock Pot was an expensive business. Beyond the tank there was a vegetable garden. Unusually, considering the height above sea level, part of it was given over to the growing of vines.

Under cover of watching the man land one of the fish, Monsieur Pamplemousse took stock of his companion. At a guess Madame Ambert was in her mid-sixties. Well groomed, expensively dressed, although not outrageously so. The few jewels she wore – a gold watch, a diamond ring on her left hand, necklace, brooch – were all of modern design. Quiet good taste was the best way to put it.

Monsieur Pamplemousse took an immediate liking to her. Perhaps it was the laugh lines each side of her brown eyes that did the trick; her face lit up when she smiled. Although her hair was immaculately coiffed there was no attempt at concealing its greyness. One thing was certain, the Director’s aunt was not the sort of person who would take kindly to being questioned. On the surface at least, she was very self-assured. He would need to tread carefully.

They sat in silence for a moment or two while the
sommelier
presented a bottle of wine in a silver
cooler; an ’89 Bâtard Montrachet from Olivier Leflaive.