Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives (14 page)

While he was talking, the Director followed the instructions, switching on a device not unlike a mobile phone.

‘Testing … testing … testing,’ he said, putting his mouth close to Pommes Frites’ ear. Pommes Frites gave him an odd look in return.

‘So far,’ explained Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I have not had a great deal of success in getting him to bark. Heavy breathing, yes … but by the time that reaches the screen it manifests itself as a row of asterisks.

‘I have tried everything I can think of … crawling around the floor shouting “Wuff! Wuff!” … making meowing noises like cat … but he treats it all as though it were some kind of game. He insists on licking me.’

‘Pommes Frites isn’t in the habit of saying “Wuff! Wuff!”,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, rising to his defence. ‘And the licks are nothing to go by. He was probably feeling sorry for you.’

‘Hmmph!’ The Director handed over the display unit. ‘If that is so, Pamplemousse, I suggest you disabuse him before we go any further.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the object doubtfully. ‘I should point out,
Monsieur
, he is the strong
silent type. He never barks except in the case of an extreme emergency. It is all part of his training.’

‘Well, you must untrain him then,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Impress upon him the fact that this
is
an emergency, and it is
very
extreme. Tell him the fate of an entire nation may hang on his “Wuffs”.’

‘With respect,
Monsieur
, I doubt if “Wuff” has any meaning to a dog. To Pommes Frites’ ears it is probably simply a noise rather than a word.’

‘We shan’t know for certain until he barks,’ said the Director crossly. ‘Here we are on the cutting edge of what appears to be a breakthrough situation and all we get is a negative response from the chief participant. It really is most frustrating.’

‘If I may make a suggestion.’ Mr Pickering looked up from another sheet of instructions he’d found in the box. ‘Pommes Frites is probably used to people speaking to him in French, whereas most of the sample translations they list are American orientated. For example: “I know I’m cute, so what do I say?”, “Go ahead, make my day!”

‘Or, taking another at random: “Are you my friend or my enemy?”. None of them are particularly germane to the problem in hand.’

‘Are you saying,’ asked Monsieur Leclercq, ‘that if and when Pommes Frites barks, anything he says will be in French and therefore untranslatable by the machine? If that is the case I shall add it to my growing list of complaints to the hotel. In the
meantime it is possible I could get Véronique to have a French version flown over.’

‘Of course, Monsieur Leclercq.’ Véronique reached for her notebook.

‘With respect,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘I doubt if that will help. I think animals get to understand the language of whatever country they happened to be born in, but when it comes to answering back they speak in a universal tongue.

‘If it were otherwise, imagine what it would be like being a German dachshund and wanting to change your mind. The poor thing would probably choke to death on words like
Gesinnungswandel
.’

‘Mr Pickering is right,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Pommes Frites has a larger than average vocabulary when it comes to understanding what is going on around him and obeying commands …’

‘In that case,’ growled the Director, ‘why can’t you order him to bark?’

‘Because, as I said earlier,
Monsieur
, it goes against his training. It will need time, and time is precious.’

Monsieur Leclercq stared down at Pommes Frites. ‘Would that we had some idea of what is uppermost in his mind.’

‘I think,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, sensing the beginnings of a tail wag, ‘what is uppermost in his mind at the moment is the thought of going for
a walk in the Bois de Boulogne. Either that, or he is hungry.’

‘There is one thing you can be sure of,’ snorted the Director, ‘if last night’s carry-on is anything to go by, he won’t have need to go for a walk in order to assuage any urgent demands of nature for some time to come.

‘I suggest we put the whole thing on the back burner for the time being while we have lunch. Mrs Beardmore can take pot luck. A little Ardennes ham may put him in a more receptive mood for new ideas.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t entirely sure about that, but he wasn’t going to argue, particularly when he heard the murmurs of approval from around the table.

‘For the time being,’ he said, ‘until we can find some way of smuggling him out of the hotel, I wonder if he should have any food at all? The one may well compound the other.’

‘Do you really think we shall get away with it?’ asked the Director, softening his tone a little.

‘A little misreporting in the press about the principal casualty wouldn’t go amiss,
Monsieur
.’

‘That can be arranged,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Remind me to get on to the editor of
Le Monde
immediately after we have had lunch, Véronique.’

Véronique reached for her notebook again.

‘Perhaps we can create some kind of diversion,’
said Mr Pickering. ‘We could leave an unattended item of luggage in the foyer. Having it blown up would be a small price to pay.’

Aware of enquiring eyes turning in his direction, the Director abruptly moved on. ‘Even if we do spirit him away, where will you send him? A so-called safe house?’

‘A safe kennel, perhaps?’ suggested Mr Pickering, then sank back into his chair as he received the full benefit of Monsieur Leclercq’s steely gaze.

‘I think I know a good place,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, hastily. ‘One where he will be happy. But first things first.’

While the others were busy helping themselves, his eyes kept alighting on the Director’s picnic hamper.

He wondered if the funeral men had left their measurements with the Director.

Pommes Frites wouldn’t like it very much, but if he curled himself up and they sat on the lid it might be possible.

What was the name of the film that had been all the rage a while back?
Honey
,
I Shrunk the Kids!
He should be so lucky. The sooner the hamper was empty, the sooner he could try it out.

They would have to remove the microphone first of course, or make sure it wasn’t switched on. Left in place there was no knowing what Pommes Frites might come out with, given the latest additions to his vocabulary.

‘Would anyone like a second helping?’ he asked hopefully, helping himself liberally to a cold collage.

‘We must leave some for Mrs Beardmore,’ said the Director reprovingly. ‘Not to mention my other guest when she arrives.’

Suitably rebuffed, Monsieur Pamplemousse joined Pommes Frites in a corner of the room.

His friend and mentor appeared to be lost in thought.

The reason was simple. All too well aware of the fact that everyone else in the room was eating, Pommes Frites was also conscious of the fact that his master was acting very strangely, one moment giving him long, calculating glances, the next eyeing the basket of food. At one point he even took out his pen, holding it first this way and then that as he squinted at it. Clearly he was trying to tell him something.

That apart, Pommes Frites found the object fastened to his collar was beginning to irritate him. As far as he had been able to make out from the little he’d seen, it was bone-shaped.

Not a real bone, of course, or even one of those biscuity ones humans sometimes paid extra for, thinking they were a treat. It certainly didn’t help matters; rather the reverse in fact, for it made him feel even more hungry.

A few swipes with his paw soon dislodged it, and not before time.

Looking round the room to make sure no one was watching, he picked it up in his mouth. There was a crunching sound and several wires and a battery landed on the floor beside him, along with sundry pieces of plastic.

He eyed them with disgust. Batteries he knew about. They made things light up, but as for being food, they were definitely a ‘no go’ area. He’d once known a Pekinese who had swallowed something called an AA battery with dire results. He certainly hadn’t shown a glimmer of light.

Pommes Frites pondered the matter for a long time, eyeing his master’s fast disappearing helping of food as he did so. The problem was he had no idea what was going on in his mind.

Over the years it hadn’t escaped his notice that when it came down to verbal communication, dogs had the rough end of the stick. It was, in many respects, a very one-sided affair. If he wanted to say something, no matter how important it was, as soon as he opened his mouth to give voice, he was told to stop it at once, and he had to resort to sign language; licking, or rolling over on his back with his legs in the air. It was really a very demeaning way of going about things, particularly in company. He’d often wondered what the world would be like if humans had to communicate with each other that way, although come to think of it, from time to time he’d seen some of them doing just that.

He had never added up the number of French words he knew, but over and above those, he was expected to understand several other languages as well. People often came up to him in the street, patted him on the head and said something totally strange, expecting him to know what they were talking about.

On one occasion his master had explained to him the man was someone called a Serbo Croat and he hadn’t understood what he was saying either.

All the same, he always tried his best.
Par
exemple
: take the French words
alors on a compris
. He knew from listening to Mr Pickering and others who spoke ‘English’ that in their country it had to do with something called ‘a penny’ falling, which meant ‘now I understand’.

At that moment Pommes Frites had a sudden attack of
alors on a compris
himself.

It dawned on him that the others in the room actually
wanted
him to bark. Not only did they want him to bark, but they weren’t going to allow him any food until he did.

Having decided what the problem was, Pommes Frites lost no time in setting matters straight. Taking a deep breath, he filled lungs to bursting point, then let rip with a whole stream of barks.

The result was both immediate and extremely satisfactory.

Most of Monsieur Leclercq’s
pâté en croute 
landed on the floor as he leapt out of his seat shouting ‘Eureka! Eureka!’

His master let go of his plate shouting ‘
Sacrebleu
!’ followed by ‘
Nom d’un nom
!’

Véronique gave a shriek, and Mr Pickering so far forgot himself as to make the sign of the cross and say something unrecognisable in English.

Fired with his undoubted success, Pommes Frites closed his eyes and carried on barking for all he was worth. He couldn’t remember having enjoyed himself quite so much in a long time. It was like being left alone in a butcher’s shop while the owner was away for the day.

Gradually his barks were echoed in other parts of the hotel. First from what sounded like an Alsatian further along the corridor. Then came an assortment of other, lesser breeds as his call was taken up by more dogs on the floor below.

Meanwhile, the Director made a grab for the handset, peered at the screen for a moment or two, then began shaking it as though mixing a cocktail.

‘What has happened, Aristide?’ he cried, giving the object a whack with his free hand. ‘Where are all the messages? Why aren’t they coming through?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse pointed to the carpet. ‘I am afraid they are not leaving base,
Monsieur
.’

‘What’s that? What did you say?’ Monsieur Leclercq gazed at the remains of Pommes Frites’ ‘bone’ as
though hardly able to believe his eyes.

‘Don’t tell me you have trodden on it, Pamplemousse!’ he boomed in a voice that reduced even its erstwhile wearer to momentarily silence.

As Pommes Frites’ barking died away, Monsieur Pamplemousse became aware of the sound of banging coming from the direction of the corridor.

‘I’ll go!’ he called, clutching at straws.

Fearing the worst, he rushed to open the door and found the room maid standing outside. Pulling it shut behind him as she tried to peer over his shoulder, he noticed her trolley and as he did so his expression changed.

There was a large laundry basket on top. It had to be meant.

‘Would you,’ he asked, ‘mind very much leaving the cleaning until later?’ He took out his wallet. ‘You can leave your trolley here. In the meantime, we are very much in need of a basket. I will make sure you get it back.’

‘That is not necessary,’ said the lady, nevertheless performing a disappearing trick with the proffered note. ‘We have many more. Just as long as you don’t complain about the state of the room, that’s all. I’m off home now. I have my own work to do.’

‘I will still make sure you get it back,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Somehow he couldn’t picture the recipient he had in mind taking kindly to a basket of that size
cluttering up the apartment. Closing the door after her, he returned to the main room.

‘What is the worst thing that can happen in a hotel?’ he asked.

‘Being a room maid and finding a suite full of people when you want to make the beds?’ suggested Véronique.

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head.

‘Pastry crumbs all over the carpet?’ said Monsieur Leclercq, eyeing his floor space guiltily.

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head a second time.

‘Clients who check out without paying the bill?’ suggested Mr Pickering.

‘You are getting warm,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Returning to the trolley, he removed the empty basket and placed it in the middle of the floor.

‘The well-being and good health of the guests is, of course, top priority with all good hotels. Not because they necessarily care two hoots about the individuals, but because if anything untoward happens to them while they are staying, it can rebound out of all proportion. The worst thing of all is to have a guest die on them. It is bad for business. They will go to any lengths to hush it up; discretion becomes their middle name.