Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat (15 page)

‘It is kind of you,
Monsieur
. I am deeply touched, and I am sure Pommes Frites would be too, but may I ask why such thoughts entered your heads?’

‘Have you not heard?’ The Director sounded equally amazed. ‘It was on all the bulletins yesterday evening. Channel Two overran and I had to adjust the automatic timing device on my recorder for the start of a late night film.’

‘One becomes very detached from bulletins when afloat,
Monsieur
. It is like being in another world.’

‘In that case I will bring you up to date. There is a madman loose in your area; a sex maniac of the very worst kind. A serial underwear fetishist who clearly will stop at nothing in order to satisfy his evil cravings. Articles of intimate female attire have been found strewn along the banks of the Canal de Bourgogne – sometimes in the reeds, at other times hanging from trees. The search for bodies goes on.’

‘Bodies,
Monsieur
? But …’

‘Bodies, Pamplemousse. So far they have been unsuccessful, but they are putting every available man on the job.

‘That is why you must take care. Who knows how he will react if he finds himself cornered?’

Catching sight of the
gendarme
glancing in his direction, Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled his hat down over his forehead and sank below the level of the windscreen. ‘Do they have a description,
Monsieur
?’

‘Just an artist’s impression, and you know only too well what they can be like. It was provided by the owner of a village shop who narrowly escaped death or even worse …’

‘Worse than death,
Monsieur
?’

‘Old fashioned as it may sound, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely, ‘there are still those who can picture a fate worse than death.

‘The poor girl was forcibly detained on the premises while articles of clothing were removed.’

‘From her person,
Monsieur
? That is monstrous.’

‘No, no, Pamplemousse. From the counter, along with the entire contents of the till. Apparently it was the day for going to the bank, so there was a considerable sum.

‘One of the stolen items was found last night floating in a lock near where I believe
Le Creuset
is moored.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse drew in his breath. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he was hiding under the bridge. He peered over the top of the dashboard. Boniface had arrived on the scene
and was half-heartedly cleaning his windscreen, trying to chat up the girl with the microphone at the same time. It didn’t look as though he was getting very far.

‘According to the girl’s description,’ continued the Director, ‘he was an unsavoury character, with staring eyes and slobber all down his chin.’

And that is just in black and white, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. Wait until
Ici Paris
does it in colour. Madame Blanc was certainly getting her own back.

‘What else is this man supposed to have done?’ he asked.

‘Things that can only be expressed by innuendo,’ replied the Director. ‘Apparently he could hardly keep his hands off her. The poor girl had to take refuge in the back room. She is too distressed to give any more details for the time being.

‘In the meantime there has been a strange turn of events in some nearby woods – the Fôret Dom de Detain-Gerguil. Two sniffer dogs picked up the scent of her assailant and while they were hot on the trail they made an extraordinary discovery. You will never guess what it is.’

‘Tell me,
Monsieur
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse wearily. It was too early in the morning for guessing games, especially when he was assailed by a dreadful feeling that everything was closing in around him.

‘
Escargots
have been found, Pamplemousse; in an
area where none have ever been seen before. One of the dogs went into the woods, not once but several times, and on each occasion it returned with a fresh one in its mouth! Furthermore they have been identified as the genuine article –
helix pomotia
.

‘The theory is they have moved north to higher ground to escape the worst of the weather.’

‘It is a long way for an
escargot
to walk,
Monsieur
.’

‘Not if they were desperate, Pamplemousse. It is, I believe, an omen of some kind.

‘Already it is being compared to the miracle of the loaves and the fishes. The police are keeping the exact location a secret, of course … but naturally the main purpose of the search has temporarily ground to a halt.

‘The President has been informed …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his head starting to swim as the enormity of the situation sank in. Reaching for a handkerchief he began mopping his brow. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the
gendarme
staring at him and realised to his horror that the ‘handkerchief’ he was using had a lace edge to it. He hastily replaced the article inside his pocket.

‘That is terrible,
Monsieur
. He must be disinformed as soon as possible. There has to be some other explanation. They could have been left behind by someone on a picnic …’

‘In this weather? I ask you, Pamplemousse, is that likely?’

‘Perhaps they are imported?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse desperately.

‘Heaven forbid! Black armbands will be worn in Dijon if that is the case.

‘But all is not gloom. I have one piece of good news for you. It seems they have established the identity of the man I spoke about yesterday; the one who was found in the wine press. His picture was in this morning’s
journaux
. His name is Ponchaud and he is a tax inspector. Apparently he was sent to investigate the peripheral activities of some of the Burgundian wine-makers. The tie-in between vineyards and other enterprises in the world of travel was high on his list. Money changing hands in return for services rendered. Tour companies have their favourite stopping places … palms are greased.

‘He was found prowling on Madame Ambert’s estate and some of the workers decided to teach him a lesson. They plead innocence, of course, saying they thought he was a common or garden thief. I have my doubts, but it will be hard to prove otherwise.

‘There is a picture of him in a hospital bed. A rather pathetic figure. According to the report he couldn’t justify his expenses taking the trip on your boat so he tagged along on foot. His catchphrase “I mingle, then, when the moment is right, I pounce” has a hollow ring to it now. He pounced once too often and in the wrong place.’

‘He was lucky he had a strong suitcase with him,’
said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They might have given the screw an extra half turn for luck.’

‘You will never guess what was inside it,’ said the Director.

‘Some half-eaten sandwiches … a
pomme
… some
journaux
… a camera …?’ hazarded Monsieur Pamplemousse.

There was a long pause. ‘You really are an incredible
homme
, Aristide,’ said the Director. ‘It is no wonder I turn to you on occasions like this.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt better. Four out of four wasn’t bad. Perhaps his luck was changing.

‘I gather you have seen my aunt.’

‘I shall be seeing her again shortly,
Monsieur
.’

‘Good. She sounded somewhat down when I spoke to her yesterday evening; in need of counsel. The whole business with Ponchaud has upset her. The very thought of being under suspicion in that way is alien to her way of doing things. I will tell Chantal. She will be pleased. In the meantime, Aristide, take great care. We cannot afford to lose you. Let us hope the fiend is soon caught.’

‘I think I may say,
Monsieur
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that I am as safe from his attentions as anyone.’

As he hung up he caught sight of the girl with the microphone. She was interviewing one of the divers. He was holding a dripping bicycle.

Retrieving the card Madame Ambert had given
him, Monsieur Pamplemousse dialled the number.

It was some while before anyone answered and when they did it was an unfamiliar male voice.

‘Tell Madame Ambert I will be with her as soon as possible.’ He gave his name, then hung up before any offers were made to collect him.

Luckily the portion of deck where the bicycles were stored was facing away from the lock, but it could only be a matter of time before the police put two and two together and equated the trail of scattered lingerie with the movement of Le
Creuset
. The question of the snails was at best only a temporary diversion. Now was probably as good a time as any to put as much distance as possible between himself and the boat.

Making his way to the coach Monsieur Pamplemousse approached Boniface. ‘Would you care,’ he said, feeling for his wallet, ‘to do Pommes Frites and myself a very great favour on your day off?’

Boniface waited until they reached Sainte-Mariesur-Ouche, some ten or twelve kilometres back down the canal, before cutting across the mountains in the direction of Gevrey-Chambertin. There had been a bad moment soon after they set off when Monsieur Pamplemousse thought they were going to travel via the road he had cycled down the day before, but there was a
ROUTE BARRÉE
notice at the junction. A
gendarme
waved them back. The Director had been right about the
escargots
being taken seriously.

Everywhere he looked there were men out with their shotguns at the ready; sometimes in small parties, more often than not alone or with their dogs.

‘It is worse in September,’ said Boniface. Removing both hands from the steering wheel, he took a pot shot at an imaginary rabbit. ‘On the first day of the hunting season it is not safe to be out. People shut themselves in their houses.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if Boniface had heard the latest news. Quite possibly not. It was a topsy-turvy world where people miles away, sometimes on the other side of the globe, had more up-to-date information than did the people on the spot. He made no mention of the rapist. Topics ranged from the change in the weather to a long saga about his childhood in Italy. It was a relief when they turned off the main road. At least the narrow, winding minor road demanded his full attention. Even Pommes Frites looked relieved to be left in peace.

Their departure from
Le Creuset
had been necessarily abrupt, the explanation perfunctory; an urgent message to return to Paris covered a multitude of sins. At least he’d been spared having to shake hands all round.

Dropping down from the hills, Boniface turned off to the right in Gevrey-Chambertin, following the
route they had taken on the very first evening.

Shortly afterwards Clos Ambert-Celeste came into view.

As they drove in through the entrance gates Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed something he had missed on the first occasion. At the end of each row of vines there was a dark red rose bush. He wondered if they were Papa Meilland. It was one of Doucette’s favourites.

The planting of rose bushes in a vineyard was an old fashioned conceit, more often seen in Bordeaux or the Rhône valley than in Bourgogne. The origins of the custom were lost in time. Some people maintained it was to stop horses accidentally trampling on the vines when they reached the end of a row, others argued that was nonsense, horses were much too sensible to do any such thing, subscribing instead to the theory that since roses were invariably quicker than vines to show signs of blight or other disease, they acted as Nature’s warning. Papa Meilland was certainly prone to mildew; it was one of its few drawbacks.

Whatever the reason, it was pleasant to see old traditions being kept alive, if only as a token gesture. It was typical, too, of Madame Ambert. Her brother would probably be all for grubbing the bushes up on the grounds that they were an unproductive use of the land.

There were vines on either side. They ran parallel
to the long, straight gravelled drive as it led them up a gentle slope towards a grey stone house standing on the brow of the hill. The grapes were starting to fill out and change colour, from green to russet red. In other circumstances he would have dearly liked to stop and take some photographs. Perhaps another time.

Fabrice Delamain’s Mercedes was parked in a circular area outside the house and Boniface drew up alongside it. An open garage door revealed two other cars, one of which he recognised as Madame Ambert’s. To the right of the house he could see a couple of battered Renaults and a moped, otherwise all was quiet.

Boniface helped him with the luggage and they shook hands.

‘Next year,
Monsieur
?’

‘
Oui. L’année prochaine
.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated the well-worn phrase automatically, but next year was a long way ahead. He doubted if it would happen.

Waving goodbye, he watched the coach disappear back down the driveway, then he turned and, leaving Pommes Frites to watch over the bags, made his way to the front door. It was opened by a man, he presumed the same one who had answered the phone earlier. It felt colder inside than it did outdoors.

Madame Ambert received him in the drawing room. It was furnished in much the same way as the
hall, a reflection of the house itself; old, plain and serviceable. The Director’s aunt evidently belonged to a stratum of society who lived well but considered creature comforts a sign of weakness and had schooled themselves to do without such things; what had been good enough for their forefathers was good enough for them. The long curtains reaching to the floor were partly drawn, shutting out the sunlight and casting the room in shadow. Even so, as they exchanged a few pleasantries he could see Madame Ambert looked pale. Her eyes were red, as though she had recently been crying.

‘It is good of you to come.’

‘I am sorry to be late. I’m afraid there were complications.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse saw no point in going into details. ‘Your brother is with you?’

‘You wish to see him?’

‘It is partly why I am here.’

‘In that case, please follow me.’

Madame Ambert led the way out of the drawing room and along a stone-flagged passage towards the back of the house. Pausing before she opened it, as though gathering strength, she stood back for Monsieur Pamplemousse to enter first.