Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation, page 4
Then summer would arrive with a rush and there would be blue scabious in amongst the cow parsley. There was wildlife galore: marmot, mountain sheep, deer, boar roaming free, and cattle everywhere. Food was basic, but it was plentiful. The Director was right; it had a lot to offer.
Coming off the Autoroute de Soleil just before the main Péage de Villefranche, he drove out of town on the D38 and, following the signs for Roanne, passed a turning for the Route de Beaujolais.
Beaujolais! He’d been practically weaned on it, but in his day it had been quaffed out of pots drawn from the cask, not racked and re-racked within an inch of its life so that it could be bottled and despatched at speed to the four corners of the world in order that people could pronounce on what was left of its virtues.
Later in the year the same sign would be the signal for the more intrepid to seek out the little village of Vaux-en-Beaujolais, setting for Chevallier’s bestselling political satire, Clochemerle. Over the years its pissoir had become famous; a shrine to the power of marketing Beaujolais Nouveau. He told himself not to be grumpy. If that was what gave people pleasure and made others prosper, then so be it. At least there were signs of a renaissance; vignerons who were working hard to raise the level again.
Once clear of Villefranche, the road began to climb steadily, heading towards the foothills of the Auvergne. On large-scale maps it showed up as a vast area of nothingness; la France profonde, the unexplored region. A day’s travel away from home had always been an adventure into the unknown.
The smaller-scale maps contained within the pages of Le Guide revealed for the most part a gastronomic wilderness without so much as a single Bar Stool, Le Guide’s symbol for somewhere to stop for lunch. The fact that it was surrounded on all sides by restaurants of note – Roanne, where he was heading, had Troisgros; Collonges-au-Mont-d’Or outside Lyon had Bocuse; and the Rhône Valley to the east, full of riches – only served to emphasise the dearth of good restaurants.
Now that Pierre Gagnaire in St Étienne had gone, closed down and moved to Paris, like so many before him, the one shining light, the single beacon shining in the wilderness, was Dulac, and by the sound of it even he was having his troubles.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was so busy with his thoughts he very nearly collided with another car at a lethal road junction just after Les Olmes, where the D38 joined the N7. Gesticulations were exchanged. The Director wouldn’t have been pleased. To say that it was all changed since he was last there would have gone down like a lead balloon.
Another 60km. Say, three quarters of an hour. He checked the time again. The clock said 13.30. He would be just about right.
After St Symphorien he hit the main road into the city and fast traffic started to build up as if from nowhere. As always, everyone else was in a tearing hurry and seemed to know exactly where they were going. Working on the theory that since Roanne’s most famous restaurant was right opposite the gare, and as with most three Stock Pot establishments probably even better signposted than anything else in the town, and since the Director had told him the Place des Promenades Populle was right by the railroad station, he couldn’t go far wrong if he aimed for Troisgros.
His theory worked. Ten minutes later and he was circumnavigating a large tree-lined park, the perimeter of which was lined with cars. The Director’s instruction to seek out a parking bay near a wall suddenly seemed optimistic. It looked as though he would be lucky to find anywhere at all to park. Moreover, there didn’t seem much in the way of activity, just a few odd cars crawling round the inner road, those at the wheel looking in much the same pessimistic state of mind as he was.
Checking the nearest pay and display machine, the Director’s reasoning that he should arrive soon after 14.00 became clear. The list of charges showed that parking was free between the hours of 12.00 and 14.00. Before and after that it rose from a minimum of 1Fr every fifteen minutes to a maximum of l0Fr for nine hours. Clearly most people either overstayed their lunch time and risked a fine, or they paid their full whack at the start of the day.
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. There had been no mention in the Director’s note about what to do in the event that he couldn’t find anywhere to leave the Twingo. Clearly such a possibility hadn’t crossed Monsieur Leclercq’s mind. Thus spoke the man who had his own personal parking space at the office.
Driving round the perimeter of the Promenades Populle for a second time, Monsieur Pamplemousse was almost tempted to give it up as a bad job when he spotted a Renault Espace backing out from behind a building. Ignoring an arrow indicating exit only, he shot into the vacant space, just beating another driver who’d had his eyes on it too.
Four elderly ladies seated on a concrete bench broke off from their gossiping to watch. Clearly, had there been an argument they would have been only too pleased to join in.
Pommes Frites stirred in his sleep as the sound of the engine died away and he heard his master’s door open and shut. Not having eaten since breakfast, he had a large hole in his stomach; a hole which had featured in a particularly good dream he’d been having; a dream in which bones played a major part; bones of all shapes, sizes and from a variety of sources. A dark patch on the rear seat bore mute testimony to their combined tastiness. (Fortunately it was covered in washable velour material since, although it was available in a wide range of colours, saliva grey was not among those listed.)
Torn between seeing what was going on outside the car and staying put for a little while longer, Pommes Frites chose the latter course and closed his eyes again.
His bliss was short-lived, for almost at once he was brought to his feet by the peremptory voice barking out orders again. Not once, but several times in quick succession: ‘STAND CLEAR. SYSTEM ARMED’ followed by ‘SYSTEM DISARMED’, then ‘SYSTEM ARMED’. It was all very confusing and for a few seconds he was up and down like the proverbial yo-yo.
During the course of one of his upward leaps, he happened to glance through the rear window and caught sight of his master. For some reason best known to himself Monsieur Pamplemousse was doing almost exactly the same thing; jumping up and down like a yo-yo. The only difference between the two of them was that he, Pommes Frites, was doing his best to obey orders, whereas his master appeared to be taking the opposite line. He was sucking his fingers and shouting merde at the top of his voice.
Not for the first time, Pommes Frites feared for his master’s sanity. He was certainly very red in the face.
However, as is so often the case in life, the truth of the matter was much simpler. Monsieur Pamplemousse had discovered the hard way that the Twingo’s exhaust pipe was smaller by at least one centimetre than the sum total of its keys plus the security triggering device. And since both were encumbered by a large rubber ball on the end of a chain, a ball which as far as he could see served no purpose whatsoever, what should have been a simple operation of pushing them up the exhaust pipe was rendered impossible.
And even if he had been able to carry out the task, the end of the pipe had a bend in it so that it faced downwards; something the Director, who wasn’t noted for being mechanically minded, had clearly overlooked. (So unmechanically minded was Monsieur Leclercq, rumour had it that when his wife had asked him to check the oil in her Volkswagen, he’d telephoned the police to report the engine was missing. But since it was one of Glandier’s stories and he had embroidered it still further by going on to say that luckily there had been a spare in the boot, the story had been taken with a large pinch of salt by the rest of the staff, although it went down well at the annual get-together.)
As Pommes Frites braced himself for his third journey into space, he felt a sudden jolt and the command ‘STAND CLEAR’ was repeated. It was followed by the high-pitched sound of a siren programmed to change its note every ten seconds or so.
Pommes Frites’ literary bent didn’t really extend much beyond recognising certain street signs like CHIENS INTERDIT (an example of which he was to come across all too soon, much to his master’s dismay) and it certainly wasn’t sufficiently advanced to allow him the luxury of following a series of illustrations. Had it been, a brief glance in the instruction manual would have made everything abundantly clear. Under a section headed ‘Security’ he would have come across the words: ‘When a more serious aggressive impact occurs (and here the writer forebore to give as an example a well-directed kick making contact with a rear tyre) the voice message will be followed by a full circle of five distinctive and different siren tones – a powerful 120 decibels – to attract attention.’
It was certainly doing that. A fifth lady had already joined those on the bench, and a small crowd of passers-by had begun to collect on the pavement alongside the park. As with traffic entering the town, they seemed to be appearing as if from nowhere and more were emerging by the second from a café on the far side of the road.
An unmarked car drew up and two men in uniform climbed out. As they drew near, Monsieur Pamplemousse stopped massaging his big toe and tried to pull himself together.
‘It is nothing,’ he said, bending down to demonstrate his problem. ‘I have burnt my fingers on the exhaust pipe, that is all.’
For the most part the crowd had been standing by in silence, awaiting developments, but then he heard some unmistakably English voices.
‘Poor old thing … look at him.’
‘Ought not to be allowed …’
‘Bloody frogs!’ The latter delivered in a tone of voice implying that at another time, in another place, a lynching party might be the order of the day.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced up in gratitude. How typical of the British! Defenders of the Faith. Champions of the underdog. Long may they live. What would the world do without them?
Meeting with a stony stare, he looked back over his shoulder and gave a start. His mind having been temporarily elsewhere, what he had taken to be the alarm system entering into a musical mode, rather more agitato than andante con moto, and far exceeding in decibels anything that had gone before was, in fact, the voice of woe in extremis and it was coming from inside the car.
‘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’.
CHAPTER THREE
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.’
