Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat (8 page)

‘We’re not in Paris,’ said Abeille. ‘And that’s your dog out there and he’s soaking wet. I know which way he’d vote if he had the chance. The party who give away free rain-hats. Look at him – have you ever seen such a miserable creature?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank as he joined her at the porthole. Pommes Frites was a past master at the art of looking forlorn when he wished and he was certainly doing his best on this occasion.

At least the question of breakfast had been answered. He was holding something large and edible-looking in his mouth.

Abeille pressed herself against him and gave a shiver. ‘You can’t let him stay there. You can’t.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt himself weakening. He caught the look in Pommes Frites’ eyes as he drew level with the boat. It wasn’t difficult in the circumstances since both were fastened on him. Soulful was the only word to describe them. The question of whether they were tearful or simply dripping wet from the rain was academic; the effect would have been the same either way.

Further along
Le Creuset
, Boniface was disembarking. Presumably having breakfasted, he was about to take the coach on to the next stopping point. Leaping on to the sodden turf lining the bank, he minced his way carefully towards the prow of
the boat and began untying the mooring rope. The prevailing wind was keeping
Le Creuset
hard against the side of the canal and as Sven began building up the engine revs in order to move away, mud, churned up by the propeller, spread out across the canal. It was now or never.

Feeling in his trouser pocket, Monsieur Pamplemousse found the ‘silent’ dog whistle he kept for emergencies. He placed it to his lips and blew, hoping the note would be audible above the throbbing of the diesel.

An answer was not long in coming. Pommes Frites obeyed the call with alacrity. Sizing up the situation in an instant, he launched himself into space, executing an almost perfect docking operation just as Le
Creuset
began pulling away from the bank. Scrabbling for a foothold on the narrow outboard just above the waterline, his head and shoulders filled the porthole, effectively blocking off half the available light. The object he had been carrying in his mouth fell to the cabin floor where, for the moment, it lay unregarded.

Had he been present, the Director’s worst fears would have been confirmed beyond doubt. Gaspard Monge, whose work on practical geometry had been commemorated by a statue in Beaune, would have put his finger on the cause of the problem straight away, possibly turning the situation to good account during one of his lectures.

Quite simply, it concerned the impossibility of passing a round body of a given circumference through a circular opening which happened to be some two or three centimetres smaller.

‘Hey! That’s terrible! You realise what’s going to happen? He could be cut in half the first lock we go through.’

Clearly, the same thought had entered Pommes Frites’ mind, for he began to struggle wildly, but he was fighting a losing battle. The more he fought to free himself the more tightly he became wedged. He was well and truly stuck, like a tapered bung hammered into the end of a barrel of wine.

Monsieur Pamplemousse made a half-hearted attempt to render assistance, but his heart wasn’t in it, for something else had caught his attention.

‘Hey, I’ve got an idea!’ cried Abeille. ‘You know what they say – what goes in must come out. You carry on pushing and I’ll go outside and pull.’

The sheer nobility and self-sacrifice of the suggestion took Monsieur Pamplemousse by surprise, but she was gone before he could utter a word of protest. Who would have thought it? There was simply no telling with some people.

As the door closed behind her he bent down and picked up the object Pommes Frites had been carrying, placing it carefully on some folded towelling on top of his dressing table. A quick glance confirmed all that he had seen on the video. There was a small
mark on one side of the parrot where a slug had entered. Hardly enough to have killed a human being, unless whoever fired it had been blessed with an exceptionally good aim, or exceptional luck; and if it had been a serious attempt on someone’s life they could hardly have hoped for the latter. He sniffed the area where the slug had entered, but it told him nothing; the rain had seen to that.

Inasmuch as it was possible to look pleased, given the unhappy situation he was in, Pommes Frites looked pleased. In his view he had presented his master with what was known in the trade as exhibit ‘A’. He only hoped the fact would be realised in the fullness of time, although for the moment he had his doubts. Having covered the parrot with a fold of the towel, his master was crouching down on the floor with his head on one side as though he had been taken suddenly ill.

The truth was, Monsieur Pamplemousse had just caught sight of Abeille’s upside-down face signalling to him through the other porthole. She must be kneeling down on the deck just above his head. Communication was proving difficult.

‘
Prenez des précautions!
’ he called.

In the circumstances it was hard to tell if she was giving him the thumbs up sign or a thumbs down, but he assumed it was the former, for a moment later Pommes Frites’ eyes began to bulge.

In the event it proved to be one of those ideas
that are better in theory than in practice. All their combined efforts were to no avail. If anything, the more Abeille and Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled and pushed the less Pommes Frites showed any sign of being about to budge.

Monsieur Pamplemousse was still pushing at his end when Abeille returned. He looked up as she entered his cabin. She was soaked to the skin; the pink négligée moulded to her body as though liquid silk had been poured over her and left to set.

She gave a shiver. ‘Can I use your shower?’ Without waiting for a reply she wriggled out of the garment and handed it to Monsieur Pamplemousse. Other minimal pieces of silken material were added to the pile in quick succession.

A sudden and totally unexpected flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by a crash of thunder exploding immediately overhead, made all three jump. Pommes Frites registered alarm as the engine went into full throttle again and the boat began to gather speed. Sven was probably making for a clearer section of the canal, away from the overhanging trees.

They were barely under way when a door on the other side of the companionway was flung open and a loud voice called out. ‘Hunn!’

‘Jesus! JayCee! If he catches me in here …’ Abeille didn’t stay to elaborate. She made a dive for the switch controlling the shower light. As she disappeared into
the cubicle she pulled the transparent curtain across after her and turned on the water.

‘Hunn … are you all right?’ A series of bangs and crashes charted JayCee’s progress down the corridor. There was the occasional response, but mostly the enquiry met with stunned silence. His voice grew louder again as he turned and started making his way back.

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around wildly. The cabin, which at first sight had seemed a miracle of careful planning, now looked remarkably devoid of any of the basic requirements of modern living. Apart from the dressing table drawers, which he had filled with his own belongings, there was nowhere to hide a handkerchief, let alone a pile of sodden clothing. The bed was built-in. The wardrobe was what it had set out to be in the first place – a hanging space without a door.

In desperation he crammed the garments into the second porthole above his bed, then tried to close the brass cover. But it was fastened back to the wall by a complicated arrangement of wingnuts, so he drew a tiny curtain across instead.

Having plunged the cabin into semi-darkness, Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily began divesting himself of his own clothing; first his shirt, then his shoes and socks.

He wasn’t a moment too soon. Following a peremptory knock, the door shot open and a cloud of cigar smoke entered.

‘Anyone at home?’

‘
Oui
.’ Conscious of Abeille’s silhouette on the transparent shower curtain, Monsieur Pamplemousse stepped forward and switched on the main overhead light. For the moment at least, it did the trick.

‘I was about to take a shower,’ he said reprovingly.

‘Sorry, pal. You been in here all the time?’

‘Since I took
petit déjeuner
…’ Monsieur Pamplemousse broke off. ‘There is something wrong?’

‘How come you got a trophy on the wall?’ demanded JayCee.

Monsieur Pamplemousse followed the other’s gaze. Mercifully Pommes Frites, having just been struck by an overhanging branch, was wearing his glazed expression. Apart from a drip on the end of his nose his head had mostly dried out.

‘You do not have one of those?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse innocently.

‘I booked the Beaune suite and all I got is pictures of goddammed wine bottles,’ said JayCee. ‘A lot of crap about vintages. Don’t you guys have vintage enhancers over here? All you do is dial the year you want, switch on and wait while it ionizes the molecules or some goddammed thing. Ask Hunn. She knows. She got me one for Thanksgiving.’

Crossing to take a closer look, he poked the end of Pommes Frites’ nose. The drip came away on his finger.

‘I guess I’ve seen everything now. Lions, elks,
deer, bears. I even knew a guy once had a crocodile. Used to bang his head on it every time he went to poke the fire … but a dog!’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily removed his trousers and hung them over Pommes Frites’ head.

‘They do wonderful things these days,’ he said, adding his hat for good measure.

JayCee frowned. ‘Hey! I can find a better use for it than that. How about doing a deal for a couple of my wine bottles?’

‘There has been a slight accident,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse desperately. ‘They are coming to remount it at any moment. In the meantime, I have promised to look after it.’

‘You call that looking after it? There’s only one thing you’re supposed to be looking after,’ said JayCee meaningly. ‘We had an arrangement. Remember?’

‘
Pardon?
’

‘Hunn.’ JayCee pointed his cigar at Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘You merely asked me to accompany her to the pageant last night,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I carried out your wishes and saw her safely back.’

‘Yeah, well, she ain’t around now. From now on you got a full-time job. If Hunn goes missing she’s your responsibility. And it starts right here as of this moment. Right?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated, torn between a desire to absolve himself of responsibility for
Abeille’s well-being and a need to get rid of JayCee with all possible speed.

‘It is possible she may have gone for a walk,’ he said lamely.

‘In this weather? Have you seen what it’s like outside? Anyway, we’re not talking Marco Polo, right? Hunn don’t like walking anywhere. She gets more pleasure staying right where she is and lying on her butt, you understand what I’m saying?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded unhappily.

‘Am I right or am I wrong?’

‘I am sure you are right,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He doubted if JayCee had ever considered the possibility that he might be wrong.

‘I suggest you start with that Boniface character.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse clutched at the passing straw. ‘Ah, now there I can help. I saw him go off in the coach after breakfast.’

‘Alone?’

‘Alone,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Yeah, well that’s something.’ JayCee sounded mollified.

He took one last look round the cabin. As he did so there was a muffled sneeze.

JayCee turned. ‘Hey! You’d better take your shower. Don’t let me stop you.’

Recovering his trousers from where they had fallen, Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced them on
Pommes Frites, then made for the shower. As he entered he took the precaution of turning off the light. The water beneath the overhead jets was warm and soothing, but as was so often the case, it only emphasised the coldness without. He moved further in. Abeille’s body felt warm and firm.

‘I tell you something – if I catch anyone playing around with Hunn I’ll kill the bastard.’ JayCee raised his voice so that all the ship could hear and take due warning.

‘I am sure it is nothing like that,’ called Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There is doubtless a very simple explanation. Besides, it is a matter of trust …’

‘Trust?’ bellowed JayCee. ‘What the hell’s trust got to do with it? A guy that don’t protect his own property deserves what he gets, right?’

‘Right!’ echoed Monsieur Pamplemousse unhappily.

‘Hey, that’s rude!’ hissed Abeille in his ear. ‘If you come any closer I shall scream.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse jumped back as though he had been shot. Given that only a moment before Abeille had been lathering areas of his own property which, to carry JayCee’s simile a stage further, would normally have been marked
PROPRIETÉ PRIVÉ
, he felt very hard done by.

‘Slowly,’ said JayCee. ‘Like there was no tomorrow. You know what I mean?’

It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that in another life JayCee would make a very good parrot.

‘Please don’t turn off the main light when you go,’ he called.

As the door closed behind JayCee, Abeille let out a sigh of relief.

‘Wasn’t that the most turning-on thing ever?’ she breathed.

‘
Non
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse with conviction. ‘
Ça n’est pas une
“turn-on”!’

‘You could have fooled me,’ said Abeille. ‘Have you felt your molecules lately?’

Hastily disengaging himself in case she decided to argue the point, Monsieur Pamplemousse made good his escape and began drying himself briskly with the remaining towel. Pommes Frites, who had already managed to shake himself free again from his master’s trousers, watched gloomily from the porthole as Abeille emerged from the shower.

She looked around. ‘So, what have you done with them?’

‘Them?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at her blankly for a moment before he realised what she meant. He glanced towards the drawn curtains, then sought refuge behind the towel again, dutifully turning his back as Abeille crossed to the porthole and drew the curtain.