Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation (6 page)

That was another difference between them. Unless there was somebody near at hand, ready and willing to give him the kiss of life should something go wrong, he preferred being on dry land. Once out of his depth he quickly went into sinking mode.

As for the sun: prolonged exposure turned him lobster red rather than mahogany brown, leaving him feeling conspicuous amongst all the seasoned sun-worshippers. His preferred method of seeing it was from behind glass, preferably tinted when he was
out driving, although that luxury was not on the list of optional extras for his
deux chevaux
.

Seeing Marineland flash past on his right, he began packing up his belongings.

Why did having tinted glass immediately make the occupants of a car objects of suspicion? In a sunny region like the Côte d’Azur it was a very sensible optional extra. He wondered if the Mercedes in Nice had been the same one that had been parked outside the hotel. On neither occasion had he taken a note of the number; something he would have done automatically in the old days.

But then one Mercedes looked very like another. Half the taxis in the area were Mercs. The one that had taken them to the hotel on their arrival had been an E Class. The diver had eyed Pommes Frites less than enthusiastically when he took advantage of the open door and climbed in the front seat, although he hadn’t argued the point.

Unless things had changed very much since his day it was very unusual to find the police using one. In general, unless it was a covert operation, they operated a see and be seen policy. And even if it were a covert operation it was highly unsuitable. They would be more likely to use a battered old van. There was nothing more calculated to draw people’s attention than having darkened windows. Passers-by immediately wanted to see inside, and if they couldn’t they suspected the worst.

Bidding the remaining Englishman goodbye, he made his way to the rear of the carriage.

He was back rather sooner than he had expected. Although he hadn’t achieved what he had set out to do, the journey hadn’t been entirely wasted. Interesting; enjoyable; at times instructive.

Being without a car had been an unexpected bonus. Normally he felt lost without it. But he’d felt a curious sense of freedom wandering around. On the other hand, he’d missed having Pommes Frites for company. And he was no further ahead with tracking down the Director’s painting. It was beginning to irk him, but
comme ci, comme ça,
you won some, you lost some.

The taxi rank outside Antibes station was empty, and a small queue had already formed. Wondering whether to take a stroll round the harbour, he looked at his watch.

There was time to spare before the hotel courtesy bus was due at the pick-up point.

Hearing the sound of a fairground going full blast from the direction of the port, he decided against it, opting instead to walk into the town.

Having got as far as the Place General de Gaulle, he was wondering whether to venture any further or call it a day, when he heard his name being called.

‘Aristide!’

Turning, he saw an immaculate white-suited figure, a black object over one arm, and an English
journal
tucked under the other, emerging from a
librairie
.

‘Monsieur Pickering! What are you doing here?’

‘Staying at the same hotel, as a matter of fact. It’s a small world. I saw you there last night – with
Madame Pamplemousse, I imagine – not to mention the redoubtable Pommes Frites. But we didn’t want to interrupt while you were all eating. Then, suddenly, there you were – gone.’ He waved the
journal
. ‘Can’t do without the crossword. English papers don’t arrive until the afternoon.’

‘But this is wonderful!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a pang of guilt for having harboured uncharitable thoughts about the mysterious man at the next table. He saw Mr Pickering only rarely. They communicated mostly by telephone, but over the years their friendship had blossomed. The last time they had met was when they were both involved with the ill-fated plan to launch a luxury airship service between their two countries. Monsieur Pamplemousse had been acting on
Le Guide’
s behalf over the catering arrangements for the inaugural flight, and Mr Pickering, revealing his connections with British Intelligence, had been on the trail of a terrorist. Their paths had become inextricably linked.

‘Thought you’d given up this sort of thing,’ said Mr Pickering, ‘but I suppose once a policeman, always a policeman.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at him. It was the second time that day the phrase had been used.

‘I am mostly here on holiday,’ he said.

‘Aah,’ said Mr Pickering cryptically. ‘That’s what my friend, Todd, says! You must meet him. Talking of which, if we don’t hurry we shall miss the courtesy bus.’

As Monsieur Pamplemousse fell into step, Mr Pickering gave him a sideways glance. ‘Are you all right? You weren’t limping the last time I saw you.’

‘It is my laptop,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply, pointing to his right leg.

‘Ask a silly question,’ said Mr Pickering. He looked as though he was about to say more, but broke off in a flurry of introductions when they reached the pick-up point.

Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised the newcomer from Doucette’s description.

Short, dark, thickset; the comparison with Tino Valentino was irresistible. Take away the baseball hat and the t-shirt depicting a road map of France he was wearing outside his denim trousers, swap them for a straw boater and a broad-striped blazer, and the picture would be complete. All the same, he couldn’t quite visualise him singing Italian love songs to the accompaniment of a portable stereo.

‘Is your wife also staying at the hotel?’ he asked politely.

Todd shook his head.

‘Todd is a DINK,’ said Mr Pickering.

‘Double Income – No Kids,’ said Todd briefly. ‘It’s a kinda cross between a mid-lifer and an empty-nester, plus the optional extras.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself wondering where the extras came from.

‘Being a master of disguise,’ explained Mr Pickering, ‘to the likes of you and me Todd is in the Import-Export business, but to the outside world he
runs a CIA Awareness Post. Or is it the other way round? I can never remember.’

Todd ignored the remark. ‘I’ll tell you what I am. I’m a Sentinel Chicken. That’s one step away from being a third-ager retiree. Right?’

Seeing Monsieur Pamplemousse’s puzzled expression as they boarded the bus, he waited until they were seated away from the others before elaborating.

‘Back home they have chickens stationed in various strategic points, mostly Florida and California. They’re on what’s called mosquito surveillance duty. Every few weeks during the summer months they get tested for viral activity. Like in 1990 chickens in Florida detected encephalitis before it had a chance to spread. Usually they’re in flocks of ten. Me, I’m a loner and I got myself no plans for going dual.

‘You gotten any theories about what happened last night?’

‘Last night?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse did his best to keep up.
‘Qu’est-ce que c’est passé?’

‘Todd means the body in the water,’ explained Mr Pickering. ‘The one they deposited on the landing stage while we were having dinner.’ He hesitated. ‘Of course, I forgot. You had already gone up to your room by then.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse paused. ‘I heard a commotion, but I hadn’t realised they were dealing with a body. Perhaps it was someone from the hotel who had been for a late-night swim and misjudged the currents. They can be very deceptive.’

‘I think we can discount that possibility,’ said Mr Pickering.

The guy was in a non-viable swimming condition,’ broke in Todd.

‘I thought Pommes Frites provided a very good summing-up of the situation,’ continued Mr Pickering. ‘In his usual succinct way, with one brief howl he captured it quite beautifully: very Hound of the Baskervilles. For a moment or two it quite put me off my rhum baba.’

‘Non-viable?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked puzzled.

‘Our transatlantic friends hate using the word “dead”,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘It is one of their more endearing qualities. He’d suffered a misadventure of high magnitude which led to a systems failure. Tell him how it came about, Todd.’

‘He’d been surgically disarticulated. Know what I mean?’

Mr Pickering savoured the phrase. ‘Don’t you love it?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but feel that the answer depended very much which side you happened to be on, but he kept his counsel, wondering instead how such an outwardly civilised person as Mr Pickering could possibly harbour such thoughts.

On reflection, he supposed it went with the one accoutrement that seemed to accompany him wherever he went. Like his pipe, he was never without it. Monsieur Pamplemousse had long suspected it must conceal a weapon of some kind. A swordstick perhaps?

Why else would anyone, even the most urbane of Englishmen, be carrying a rolled umbrella on the Riviera in the middle of June?

The bus stopped short of the hotel to drop Todd off at the trailer caravan he’d seen earlier in the day. It didn’t surprise him. Somehow the two went together.

‘I’m glad you two have met,’ said Mr Pickering, as they waved goodbye. ‘Todd’s good to have around. Tough as old boots. Seen it all. First rate in an emergency. On your side.’

It sounded like the edited version of a CV. Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what he had done to deserve it; or, perhaps more to the point, what might be expected of him at some future date.

The day began with a fanfare from the bedside radio. It was followed by some pips and a dark brown voice, rich in Southern overtones. ‘In the Alps,’ it said, ‘the carrot is golden and already cooked to perfection, but for the time being it is resting; hidden from view on a cushion of cauliflowers.’

‘What
is
the man on about?’ said Madame Pamplemousse sleepily. ‘Anyone would think he was applying for a job with
Le Guide
. I thought he was supposed to be giving the weather forecast, not reading from a menu.’

‘It
is
the weather forecast.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse emerged from the bathroom. ‘He is simply saying that for the time being the sun is hidden behind some clouds. In total, rainfall on the Côte d’Azur is not so very much different to anywhere else in France. It just so happens that it generally comes all at once, so it is a
case of making the most of it. Meteorologists latch on to any sign of a change and milk it for all it’s worth. Think of having to say the same old thing day after day. They probably go to church Sundays and pray for a posting to Brittany where there is more weather than they would know what to do with.

‘It is like being an airline pilot. After sitting in their seat for hours on end twiddling their thumbs while they are crossing the Atlantic, the moment of truth comes when they begin the final approach. A bumpy landing and they are cast in gloom for the rest of the day, a smooth one and they are walking on air.’

‘If they were able to do that,’ said Doucette, ‘it would mean something had gone very wrong with their calculations.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse pretended he hadn’t heard. ‘If you ask me, he is hedging his bets.’

‘Was, you mean,’ said Doucette. ‘I think he has finished. Now we shall never know.’

‘Ssh!
Un moment
.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse held a finger to his lips and was just in time to catch the sting in the tail.

‘Beware! The signs are misleading. Remember the old saying:
“Soleil rouge du matin faire trembler le marin?”’
For the benefit of any Anglo-Saxon holiday-makers who happened to be listening the announcer lapsed into broken English: ‘Red sky in ze morning – shephardy’s warning.’

‘What did I tell you?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Shephardy’s warning!’

Operating the shutters, he unfastened the balcony door and felt a draught of warm air as it swung open. ‘My grandmother used to say much the same thing whenever we had a long spell of hot weather: “It is too good to be true. Mark my words. We shall pay for it!”.’

Outside the air did indeed feel heavy and overcast. The sky was covered by a mixture of grey and white cloud. Lacking any blue to reflect, the sea had an ominous, almost sullen look to it. So much for the inevitability of seeing the sunrise.

A solitary water-skier was making for harbour further along the coast. Nearer to the shore seagulls crowded together on the small pier, pecking furiously at anything they could find. The hotel was also hedging its bets. The man who was normally out early raking the sand was nowhere to be seen. Mattresses remained piled up alongside the parasols, while half the luncheon tables remained bare as staff gloomily awaited a decision from on high. Apart from the forecaster, bad weather was not a matter up for discussion on the Riviera; particularly where
hôtelièrs
were concerned.

‘Aristide … come quickly …’ At the sound of his wife’s voice, Monsieur Pamplemousse rushed back into the room.

It was a female news reader this time: ‘… the Nice Police are investigating the possibility that the dismembered body of a man found floating in the water off Cap d’Antibes on Tuesday evening may be the remains of a well-known Nice antique dealer who
has been missing from his home since Tuesday. The cause of death has still to be established. We hope to have more details in our eleven o’clock bulletin.

‘The Pope is continuing his tour of Basutoland with a visit to the cath …’

Madame Pamplemousse pressed the off button. ‘How awful!’ she exclaimed. ‘That was the day we arrived. Aristide … you don’t think …’

‘If it is,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘then Monsieur Leclercq’s painting may well be at the bottom of the sea.’ He was tempted to add ‘or else hanging on someone’s apartment wall,’ but it felt too reminiscent of their previous evening’s conversation for comfort.

‘After we have had our
petit déjeuner
I think I may go along to the school,’ he said instead.

‘Must you, Aristide?’ sighed Doucette, knowing the answer full well.

‘It is just possible the man arrived early and arranged for the painting to be picked up.’

‘And left no message? It hardly seems likely.’

‘At least I shall have explored every avenue,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Our consciences will be clear.’ Opening
Le Guide
’s issue case, he removed the Leica R4 camera, dithered for a moment or two over the choice of film, and finally decided to load up with a spool of Ilford HP4. Storms on the stretch of coast south of the Alps were often dramatic. They lent themselves to black and white photography. Removing the standard 50 mm Summicron lens, he substituted the latest addition which was currently on test – a
lightweight Tamron 28–300mm zoom – pocketed a couple of cloud filters and a spare film, then attached the motor-drive.

With luck he might get something spectacular for the front cover of the staff magazine. Calvet, the editor, was always on the look-out for something different and if the rumours were true that a more sophisticated version of it might be going on general sale, it could be an opportune moment.

Hearing the sound of voices and clinking china, he went out onto the balcony again.

The Russian family had arrived for breakfast: father, mother and a younger woman – he guessed she must be a nanny come interpreter since he had seen her translating the menu for them at dinner the previous evening.

The thickset man with the teeth who had also been present at the school play, and looked as though he might be a minder, was taking his seat at an adjoining table.

While he was watching, the child arrived. With her hair in pigtails and without make-up she looked almost human. She was wearing a school backpack, and with her barrel-shaped torso she reminded Monsieur Pamplemousse of a Russian nesting doll, with its endless layers that come apart. He wondered what would be inside her. Would one ever get beyond the second layer? And once there, would it reveal a soft centre?

Acting on the spur of the moment, he powered the
camera, switched to automatic, then crouched down so that he could use the top of the balcony as a rest while he zoomed in on the girl.

Almost as though they were linked by some kind of servo-mechanism, at the very moment when he pressed the shutter release she turned and stared straight up at him.

Hastily zooming out and panning away from her revealed the fact that for the second time in less than forty-eight hours, the whole group were now looking his way.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a tentative wave. It was met with icy stares all round; the child’s eyes were the coldest of all. He felt almost tempted to look for a lens tissue to wipe away the frost.

What was the English saying about little girls being made of sugar and spice and all things nice? Either he’d got it wrong or she had a problem with her genes. He must check with Mr Pickering.

‘You are looking very furtive, Aristide. Is anything the matter?’ Doucette joined him on the balcony as he was about to move. ‘That man’s ears look even worse in the daylight. I can see what it is now. He’s got no lobes.’

Ignoring the non sequitur, Monsieur Pamplemousse converted his wave into an indication of the weather in general. ‘It is not a day to spend on the beach, Couscous. What will you do while I am gone?’

‘I half promised I would meet Madame Pickering,’ said Doucette. ‘Did you know she is a judo black belt?’

‘Is that why you are seeing her?’ Leading the way
back into the bedroom, he closed the door behind them.

‘Of course not. It’s just that it seems so unlikely.’

‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. Nothing surprised him about the Pickerings. Mr Pickering was one of those strange Englishmen with such diverse interests he was impossible to categorise. It was probably a case of like marrying like.

‘Her name’s Jan. It’s short for Janet. And I guessed right – she’s Scottish. She belongs to something called a Women’s Institute – they make
confiture
. She has a gold medal for her roses. She goes clay pigeon shooting.
And
she bakes her own bread.’

‘Perhaps she has a guilt complex,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘I doubt it,’ said Doucette. ‘I think she is just one of those people who always has to be doing something. She also makes wine from oak leaves. Mr Pickering says it’s better than leaving them on the railway lines and holding up the trains. I’m not sure whether he was joking or not.’

‘It is often hard to tell with
les Anglais
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Knowing his taste in wine I should have thought he would prefer them left where they had fallen.’

‘Other people seem to lead such active lives,’ persisted Doucette. ‘Yesterday she was grumbling about being away. Apparently this week it is the local fête and she is usually in charge of the duck races. Do you think there is something wrong with me?’

‘Of course not, Couscous.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse
gave his wife a hug. ‘I’m sure you are just as busy in other ways.’

Madame Pamplemousse looked relieved. ‘In that case you won’t mind if I go into Antibes and visit the Picasso Museum with her.’

‘Of course not.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried not to sound too enthusiastic.

Last night at dinner Doucette and Madame Pickering had got on like a house on fire (he still found it hard to think of her as Jan) and it would solve the problem of going off on his own. His conscience would be clear.

The news item on the radio that morning was unsettling to say the least. He glanced at his watch. It was barely nine o’clock; too early to telephone Monsieur Leclercq. Anyway, what was there to say? That the man he was supposed to have met might have been ‘surgically disarticulated’ as the American, Todd, would put it? There was no sense in worrying him unnecessarily.

‘Do you think you should take a
parapluie
?’ asked Doucette, as he got ready to leave after breakfast on the balcony. ‘I’m sure the hotel will lend you one.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced up at the sky. He shook his head. He had seen the Soleil d’Or’s umbrellas. Enormous steel-framed contraptions. Like the hotel itself, they were a throwback to the thirties; built to last. It would be an added encumbrance. Besides, he would sooner get wet than run the risk of being struck by lightning.

Nevertheless, having waved goodbye to Doucette, he headed for the reception desk. There were a few more questions he wanted to ask.

‘Les Russes?’
The
concierge
was as noncommittal as the remains of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s investment allowed; giving value for money, but no more, and no less.

The Russians had taken a suite at the hotel for the month of June to be near their daughter. ‘Come the beginning of July, when the schools break up,’ he gave a shrug.

‘Who knows?

‘One has to accept the world as it is,
Monsieur
. Not as one would like it to be.

‘One might also argue they are only carrying on a tradition. In the old days the Grand Dukes used to flock to the Riviera to escape the ice and snow of the Russian winters.’

In other words, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, if you are a hotelkeeper would you turn away such big spenders? If you were a
restaurateur
and people came in, ordered the most expensive dishes on the menu, drank the best wines, paid in cash – lavishly tipping all and sundry into the bargain, would you turn them away, tell them never to darken your doorway again? Nor, if the truth were told, would it be wise to do so.

It had been before his time, but in those days Paris had been full of white Russian taxi drivers fleeing from the Bolsheviks, although he would have been willing to bet they hadn’t been made to feel quite so welcome.

Pommes Frites was ready and waiting, eager for a change of scene. In his opinion there was a limit to the number of times a dog could chase seagulls off a pier without losing face. As soon as his back was turned they appeared again. A walk with his master couldn’t have happened at a better time.

Passing the row of shops on the way to the school, Monsieur Pamplemousse saw that the blacked-out window he had noticed the previous evening belonged to a delicatessen; now offering a mouth-watering display of
charcuterie
.

Unable to resist going inside, he bought a
saucisson
for Pommes Frites to have with his lunch, along with some freshly-made black
boudin
. It would be some compensation for his having to make do with an inflatable kennel while they were on holiday; yet another exercise in conscience easing.

For some reason best known to himself, Pommes Frites seemed to be playing his cards close to his chest. Clearly something had been on his mind ever since they arrived.

More often than not when they were on their travels he shared his master’s room, and it was hard to explain away those occasions when it wasn’t possible.
Chiens interdit
signs he knew, but the small print on hotel brochures meant less than nothing to him. It would be a shame if he took it personally.

On the other hand, the
saucisson
in particular struck him as a good omen. It was a Bâton de Berger aux Noisettes from Justin Bridou. The picture on the
label of a man wearing a beret and green jacket – he’d always assumed it was Monsieur Bridou himself, clearly a man of infinite wisdom when it came to the finer points of
charcuterie
– brought back memories of his time in the
Sûreté
. In those days it had been his preferred choice of a persuader on those occasions when information had to be extracted quickly and cleanly from people who, by the very nature of their calling, were reluctant to talk. Speaking personally, although they only weighed a mere 250g, he had found them to be even more effective as a blunt instrument than the well-worn Paris telephone directory favoured by many of his colleagues; particularly as the latter also lacked the addition of
noisettes
.