Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation (5 page)

‘Well?’ It was the red-faced individual again. ‘Aren’t you going to do something about him?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse glared back. He should have known. Perfidious Albions. Hypocrites all. Their professed love of animals often masked their real feelings; one of dislike for the French. No wonder they were responsible for mad cow disease and half the other ills in the world.

‘
Monsieur
has travelled far?’ the senior of the two officers broke into his reveries.

‘From Paris.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse prayed he wouldn’t be asked to produce his licence. The fingers of his right hand felt as though they had been dipped in boiling oil.

‘I simply wished to leave the keys inside the pipe for safe keeping,’ he added briefly by way of explanation, as he went round the side of the car to open one of the doors; not a moment too soon in Pommes Frites’ humble opinion.

‘Lovely day for a long drive,’ ventured the man’s colleague, clearly playing the part of the nicer of the two.

‘It’s no wonder your exhaust is hot,’ said the first. ‘No doubt
Monsieur
made good time.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse glared at him. He wasn’t falling for that old one, an approach much beloved of the traffic police.

‘It is a new car,’ he said stiffly. ‘I drove slowly, for it needs to be treated with respect.’

The senior
gendarme
touched the brim of his hat. ‘Have we met before,
Monsieur
?’

‘I think not.’

Catching sight of Pommes Frites, recognition dawned in the officer’s eyes. His face took on a look of respect as he automatically straightened his shoulders.

‘If I can be of any assistance, Monsieur Pamplemousse.’

‘Non, merci.
’ Monsieur Pamplemousse suppressed a sigh. He wished it hadn’t happened, but it wasn’t the first time. His picture had appeared in too many
journaux
over the years; whenever a particularly juicy case had hit the headlines, not to mention his own enforced early retirement following the scandal at the
Folies
. If the latter hadn’t exactly stood him in good favour with those on high, at least it had made him a figure of renown in the lower ranks.

He glanced round at the crowd of onlookers. What was it the Director had said? ‘
Anonymat
at all times.’ If he felt that way he might have chosen a car of a different colour. Anything less anonymous than a bright yellow Twingo,
jaune paille
as the makers chose to call it, would be hard to imagine. It stood out like a beacon in the car park. Sore thumb was not a comparison he wished to make at that moment.

Word would get around. Passers-by would be stopping to have a closer look for the rest of the day.

And if he did hang around in the hope that someone might turn up, who knew when that would be? It could be in half an hour. It could be late that evening. It might even be the following day.

Monsieur Pamplemousse changed his mind. ‘I wish to make a telephone call,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile …’ His brief, almost imperceptible nod towards the assembly was taken on board in a trice. It was part of the
brotherhood, a kind of lesser Masonic lodge where a wink was as good as a secret handshake.

Reaching for his baton, the
gendarme
nodded in the direction of a group of three telephone boxes. ‘Over there,
Monsieur
.’

‘The ones in the front are the worst,’ murmured Monsieur Pamplemousse as he signalled Pommes Frites to follow him. ‘English animal rights protesters of the very worst kind.’

While he was feeding the machine he toyed with the idea of leaving a note up the exhaust pipe, saying where he could be found, but decided it might smoulder and catch fire, attracting even further attention.

Véronique answered his call straight away. It was as he feared. Monsieur Leclercq was not available.

‘He is taking the chief of one of the press agencies out to lunch.’

He could guess which one
and
the subject under discussion.

‘Can I help in any way?’

‘Simply tell Monsieur LeClercq, “Mission Unaccomplished.” He will understand.’

‘
Oh là là
!’ Véronique sounded alarmed. ‘Are you all right, Monsieur Pamplemousse? Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Sadly, no,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I will try phoning him again when I reach Dulac.’

With a heavy heart Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to his car, closed the boot, signalled Pommes Frites to follow him and took his own place behind the steering wheel. Not wishing to miss any of the fun Pommes Frites clambered in beside him.

Settling himself down he wondered idly why they went out through the entry to the car park when other cars were queuing to get in. It didn’t seem a very popular move.

One way and another his master seemed to be having one of ‘those days’.

It was entirely his own fault. He shouldn’t have stopped, but curiosity got the better of him; the same curiosity that had proverbially killed the cat, and in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s case was to lead to the death of someone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It had started to snow soon after he left Roanne; at first only a few wispy flakes, then it grew heavier and more sustained. The sky looked full of it, and the few Charolais cattle that were still out and about were beginning to look grubby, as though they were all in need of a bath. Everything in life was relative, even different shades of white.

Passing through a small wood soon after beginning the long climb up to the Col de Buchet, he noticed someone had hacked out a patch of ground
in a sheltered, south-facing clearing and planted cabbages. It was scratching a living with a vengeance, but hope springs eternal in the human breast.

He was still thinking about it when he entered a sharp right-hand bend and nearly collided with a small Citroën coming in the opposite direction. It was on the wrong side of the road and the grey-haired woman driver appeared affronted, as though he had no right to be there.

Taking a quick look in his rear-view mirror, he saw she had skidded to a stop and was reversing, rather as though she intended making a U-turn in order to come after him. Surely not, since she was so clearly in the wrong, cutting the corner in a manner typical of a local inhabitant claiming right of way. It could be that she wished to apologise for her error of judgement, but he rather doubted it.

Pulling in to the side of the road, he waited until the other car came alongside before opening his window.

‘Monsieur Pamplemousse! I heard you were in the area. Then, when I saw the yellow Twingo …’

News had always travelled fast in the Auvergne, via the bush telegraph, grapevine, call it what you liked; in this day and age probably the Internet, it was all the same. You only had to breathe the magic words ‘Don’t tell anyone’, and it spread like wildfire. Even so … this was ridiculous.

‘You won’t remember me. We were at school together.’

‘Of course …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse racked his brains, but he had totally no idea.

‘Don’t tell me you have forgotten the woodshed at the bottom of the playground. If you remember, I ran home and told Mama of your naughtiness and she wouldn’t let me speak to you for the rest of that term.’

‘Honoré!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at her as it all came back to him. The steel-rimmed glasses hadn’t helped. She hadn’t worn glasses of any kind in those far off days, although looking back he had always thought of her as being a bit short-sighted.

A finger wagged. ‘You haven’t changed. I read about that business at the
Folies
. Your reason for taking early retirement from the
Sûreté
.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the
journaux,
’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gruffly. ‘It was all a mistake. Someone was out to get me. Besides, they exaggerate. It wasn’t the whole chorus line. Only a few.’

Realising he was wasting his breath, he tried changing the subject. ‘What are you doing now?’

‘I am the headmistress.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a whistle. ‘Little Honoré Pichot! Who would have believed it?’ Well, he would have for a start. Even at the age of seven
she had been a strict disciplinarian. Stealing a kiss had been something of a challenge at the time; a dare on the part of his classmates and one that had backfired as far as he was concerned, but they had all thought it a huge joke.

She was wearing thick driving gloves, but he would have bet anything they didn’t conceal a ring.

‘Madame Pichot …’

‘
Mademoiselle.
’ Her correction made it sound like a triumph of wisdom over the forces of evil. ‘I cannot wait to tell the others you are here.’

‘I would much rather you didn’t,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. Having stories about his early exploits bandied about, stories which doubtless had become heavily embroidered over the years, was the last thing he needed.

Mademoiselle Pichot didn’t exactly say, ‘What is it worth to keep quiet?’ At least, not in so many words. The gleam in her eyes was enough.

Which was how he came to find himself being blackmailed – on reflection there was no other word for it – into agreeing to attend a prize-giving ceremony at his old school at eleven o’clock the following day.

‘After all,’ Mlle Pichot reverted to her role of headmistress, ‘you
are
our most famous
vieux garçon
.’

At that moment a large
camion
laden with freshly
cut timber came up behind them and the driver gave a blast on his horn, impatient at having to stop. His action forced Monsieur Pamplemousse into making a snap decision before going on his way.

In the circumstances he could hardly have said ‘no’, but as he neared Pouligny he began to wish he’d at least made the attempt. So much for a quiet spell away from it all.

On entering the village his spirits sank still further. At first sight there was little left of the place as he remembered it. The fact that it now merited a bypass should have forewarned him. Everywhere there were signs of a new-found prosperity. The Twingo’s tyres transmitted a warning rumble via the suspension as he passed a
Chaussée Cahoteuse
sign at speed and hit a series of humps in a road which had been relaid in red brick. Pommes Frites eyed him reproachfully in the rear-view mirror. Over the next hundred metres or so he encountered no less than three pedestrian crossings, all entirely devoid of human life, before a sign indicating a
Zone Scolaire
forced him to slow down still further. In his day going to school had been a case of waiting for the sound of approaching traffic, then making a dash for it; the first one across the road being labelled a sissy. They had never lost the last one to have a go.

Truly motorists were rapidly becoming an endangered species. Pariahs of the very worst kind,
sent packing the long way round whenever possible.

Entering what had once been the market square he saw the statue to Louis XIV had been moved to one side, its place taken by a
rond-point
of all things. The old horse trough where on fête days the wandering minstrel had set up his ten-stringed hurdy-gurdy was nowhere to be seen. Probably in some antique store where it would end its days as a garden ornament.

The opposite side of the square had been laid out as a parking area, empty now apart from a van and a scooter, both covered in a layer of snow. It was curiosity again that caused Monsieur Pamplemousse to park the Twingo alongside them and climb out in order to take stock of his surroundings. And once again, when he had time to view everything in retrospect, he had cause to wonder what would have happened had he bypassed the village altogether. It was one of those moments which confirmed his belief that some things in life felt as though they were preordained, with everything fitting into place like a jigsaw puzzle.

The old round-domed Romanesque church just off the square was still in place, exactly as he remembered it, and indeed exactly as it had been since the establishment of the Capetian kingdom in the eleventh century.

In direct contrast, posters outside a
tabac
invited
him to dance the
Chaud Chaud
in
Le Club
. As an added attraction between numbers, for one week only, a hypnotist was appearing.

The Café du Commerce was still there, much as he remembered it, except for a large espresso coffee machine dominating the zinc bar. A group of old men stared out at him as he walked past. He wondered if he had known some of them as a small boy. More to the point, had any of them known him, and would they recognise him?

The answer came almost immediately as they all waved in unison.

When he was safely free of their gaze he paused to look at his own reflection in a shop window. Surely he didn’t look quite as old as they did? At least he wasn’t waiting the end of his life away in a café bar. Thank goodness he had left when he did.

The
bricolage
was still there; old Pascal the owner – if he was still alive he must be at least ninety by now – must have dug his heels in. Entering it had always been a treat. He wondered if it still smelt of old leather hunting jackets and tarred rope: it had been a treasure house of dog chains, screws, nails, nuts and bolts, fencing; anything and everything to do with the countryside. And if it wasn’t in stock it would arrive the next day by the ancient delivery van that plied between the village and Roanne until the war eventually put a stop to it.

Those few things aside, the village of Pouligny might well have been renamed Dulacsville. Most three Stock Pot establishments had irons in other fires these days – the state of the economy dictated it – but Dulac had really pulled out all the stops.

Sandwiched between the old
Crédit Mutuel
, now sporting a gleaming new façade, and a kitchen shop with cookery books elegantly displayed alongside gleaming pots and pans and other culinary equipment, there was a boutique displaying what he assumed were the latest fashions. It was a far cry from old Madame Armoury (Late of Paris and Rome); rumour always had it that she had only been to those two places while on holiday.

Without moving another step he could see a smart winery, a
pâtisserie
, its windows full of pastries and jars of
confiture
, a delicatessen, the carefully restored remains of the original hotel, now turned into a museum and a hair-dressing salon.

Trade was not brisk in any of the shops; a sprinkling of Japanese and some Germans in the boutique – the former probably on the lookout for Hermès scarves and ties; some Americans were browsing in the kitchen shop; an English couple were gazing in awe at the window of the
pâtisserie
. It wasn’t hard to identify the different nationalities.

He wondered what the local inhabitants thought of it all. Doubtless it had been part of the deal that
in return for Dulac getting planning permission, all the roads and pavements had been relaid at his expense. The old guard would be up in arms, the younger generation probably embraced the arrival of a hairdressing salon and a hi-fi shop, for unlike many such places in the Auvergne, which over the years had seen the population dwindle, that of Pouligny must have increased threefold.

And then, a short way along the street leading out of the square, on the other side of a tiny stream that ran through the village, a tributary of the Loire – when he was small he’d thought it was the Loire itself – he came across another anachronism: slap, bang, where it had always been and badly in need of a coat of paint, looking for all the world like an abandoned film set, stood the Hôtel du Commerce. He remembered it well. In its day it had been a rival to the Hôtel Moderne, the forerunner of Dulac.

Monsieur Pamplemousse supposed people must stay there still, perhaps the odd commercial traveller trying to save on his expenses. Welcome wasn’t exactly written in large letters on the mat, but then it never had been.

As he drew near he glanced at a menu held inside in a glass-covered board by the entrance. Undated, it had an air of permanency about it. What must once have been written in dark blue was now purple with
age. It was also very predictably a menu of the region, founded on ham, eggs and cheese. A choice between roast pork with chestnuts
à la clermontois,
pig’s trotters with lentils and Cantal cheese, or
Truffade auvergnate
– cheese, bacon and potato pancakes, followed by the ubiquitous
clafoutis
– tiny black cherries cooked in batter. Wine included – thirty francs. To anyone as hungry as he was beginning to feel, it made tempting reading (and on the face of it, not bad value), but he wondered.

The hotel had never made
Le Guide
, or any other gastronomic publication as far as he knew. It had been owned by another branch of the Dulac family; someone who called himself Claude Le Auvergnat, and in truth Claude had never been rated very highly as a chef. Authentic recipes they may have been, but they lacked the one essential ingredient, love. The local name for indigestion had been ‘an attack of the Claudes’. Even in his own day, when Claude’s father had been in charge, it had always been a case of take it or leave it.

It was the other side of the Dulac family who had all the talent; the talent and the ambition to go with it. All around him stood living proof of that.

Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the notebook he kept concealed in a pocket of his right trouser leg. There was no harm in adding to his store of knowledge. As he removed his Cross pen
from an inner pocket and stood poised to write, a sixth sense made him aware that someone was watching him through a gap in the net curtains. He stood for a moment, pretending to be lost in thought, then suddenly looked round, but whoever it was must have read his thoughts and anticipated accordingly. The curtains fell back into place before he had a chance to catch sight of who was behind them.

It was probably only his imagination, but as he made his way back down the street to where he had left the Twingo, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a prickling sensation down the back of his spine. He was determined not to give way to it and look back. Ever sensitive to his master’s moods, Pommes Frites suffered no such inhibitions. He hung around the hotel entrance for a while as though expecting something to happen and when it didn’t he left his mark before he went on his way wearing one of his enigmatic expressions. A keen observer might have noted that he didn’t bother leaving any further marks
en
route
as was his usual wont, although given the fact that nothing had passed his lips since early morning that wasn’t so surprising.

Each lost in their own thoughts, they stayed that way as Monsieur Pamplemousse doubled back on himself and after a brief excursion round the rest
of the village, drove out of Pouligny following the signs to Dulac. He passed a small working quarry, rounded a bend in the road and there it was spread out before him.