Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (12 page)

No matter. Monsieur Pamplemousse put his arm inside the kennel and groped for a likely candidate among the remaining sausages. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. One should never judge a sausage by its skin, and
andouillettes
could be unpredictable at the best of times; some he’d come across in his travels would have tested the strongest of stomachs. Far better to choose one which would match the wine.

His hand encountered one much larger than the rest, somewhere near the back. A giant of a
saucisson
, he remembered seeing it before and at the time mentally reserving it for a special occasion.

‘
Sapristi
!’ He gave a gasp as he lifted it out. At a guess it must weigh all of three kilogrammes. Enough to keep them all happy for the rest of the evening. And afterwards? Afterwards, he would let matters take their course.

Clasping the
saucisson
in both hands, he rose to his feet and made for the door. Crooking the little finger of his right hand round the light cord, he gave it a tug, then manoeuvred the door handle down with his left arm and gave it a push. The door opened onto more darkness, a darkness made even more impenetrable by his glasses, stretching their photo-chromatic qualities far beyond anything envisaged by their designers.

‘
Qu’est-ce
que
c’est
?’

‘I hope you don’t mind.’ Mrs. Cosgrove’s voice sounded tremulous. ‘Your world is one of total night-time, I know. So it will mean nothing to you, but to me it will mean everything. It will make us equal. I have turned out the light.’

‘As you wish,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse unhappily. Life had many strange and unexpected twists – that was part of its richness – but he had to admit that a minute ago he wouldn’t have remotely pictured himself groping about in his own room carrying a giant
saucisson.
It would certainly be hard to explain to others. Doucette wouldn’t believe him – not in a million years. That apart, he had other, more pressing problems on his mind. He wished now he’d made a more accurate mental note of the positioning of the furniture.

Steering a course as best he could to the right of centre, so as to avoid treading on Pommes Frites – assuming Pommes Frites was where he’d left him, he headed in the general direction of the table.

‘
Merde
!
Nom
d
’
un
nom
!’

‘Are you all right? Where are you? I can’t see you.’ Mrs. Cosgrove sounded anxious.

‘I have stubbed my toe on a leg of the bed.’ It was agony. It felt as though it had been broken in at least six places.

‘Aaah!’ Short though it was, Mrs. Cosgrove managed to imbue the word with a wealth of meaning. A moment later there was a rustle and she was by his side, breathing his name. And each time she breathed his name it was accompanied by a little sob and a wriggle. It was like standing beside a belly-dancer who was having trouble with her act.

His heart missed a beat as something gossamer light landed at his feet and he realised the truth of the matter. At least it answered an earlier question; answered it and immediately posed another.

Like most Capricorns, Monsieur Pamplemousse had a strong sense of priorities. Once a course had been set he didn’t like deviating from it. Mentally he had geared himelf to satisfying the desires of the inner man before anything else. The message had gone out to all departments; taste buds were throbbing in anticipation, salivary glands were at the ready, the stomach was standing by ready to receive. On the other hand …

‘Here, take this for a moment.’ Holding out the
saucisson,
he started to prepare himself for a change of plan.

‘Jesus!’

‘
Out,
c’est
ç
a
.’ It came back to him. ‘That is its name.
Jésus.
’ His opinion of Mrs. Cosgrove went up several more points. She obviously knew her
charcuterie
as well as she knew her
vin
rouge.
She would do well on Ananas’ quiz show. ‘It is from the Jura. I am told it is delicious served with
pomme
à
l’huile.
’

Hovering on one leg as he gingerly removed the sock from his bad foot, Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly realised he was talking to himself. Mrs. Cosgrove was no longer there. Reaching out, he made contact with her outstretched form on the bed. His reward was a long drawn out moan.

‘Aristide!’ A hand took hold of his and gently but firmly guided it towards the head of the bed. Beneath the silk of the dress her
boîte
à
lolo
felt warm and inviting. Warm and inviting and …

He gave a start. Someone was knocking on the door. Knocking, moreover, in a manner which suggested that whoever was responsible would not readily go away without an answer.

‘
Un
moment
.’ Panic set in as he reached out and turned on the bedside light. For a split second he toyed with the idea of covering Mrs. Cosgrove with the duvet, but one look at her made him change his mind. In her present state of mind there was no knowing how she might react.

A second knock, louder this time and even more insistent, spurred him into action. Reflexes born of years in the Force
took over. Putting his arms round Mrs. Cosgrove, he lifted her bodily off the bed and dragged her towards the bathroom.
En
route
he essayed a kick at the
saucisson
and immediately wished he hadn’t. It was his bad foot. With his other leg he hooked the
culottes
under the bed.

Pommes Frites jumped to his feet and stared at his master in astonishment. He hadn’t seen such a furious burst of activity for a long time. It looked a very good game and he hurried round the room collecting all the items in case they were needed for a repeat performance.

‘Where are you taking me? What do you want to do with me? Tell me! Tell me!’ Brought to her senses at last, Mrs. Cosgrove gazed wildly round the bathroom, first at the pile of sausages on the floor, then at Pommes Frites’ kennel.

‘Shush!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse put a finger to his lips and then planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘Please. I will explain everything later.’

Closing the bathroom door before she had time to answer, he made for the other door just as it started to open. Ananas was waiting outside. He looked furtive, as if he hadn’t wanted to be seen there.

‘May I come in?’

‘I am a little busy. Could it not wait until later?’

‘I will not keep you more than a moment or two. What I have to say I would rather say in the privacy of your room.’

‘As you wish.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. Clearly Ananas had no intention of leaving until he’d had his say. The sooner he got it off his chest and went away again the better.

Ananas took in the bottle and the two glasses, the state of the bed and Monsieur Pamplemousse’s foot, but made no comment.

‘I have come to tell you that I no longer require your services.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? You mean there is no one trying to blackmail you after all?’

Ananas dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his freshly manicured hand. ‘Shall we say it was a little misunderstanding all round. The good Herr Schmuck was merely taking precautionary measures to ensure that I would do something I fully intended doing anyway. Château Morgue has been
getting some “bad press” recently and he wants me to restore its respectability. You or I would have done the same thing had we been in his place.’

‘You might,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gruffly, ‘I wouldn’t.’

Ananas inclined his head. ‘Perhaps. But in the end we all protect that which we believe to be rightfully ours. I admit I might have chosen a different means. However, we all have our methods.’

‘You mean – you will give him your endorsement – after all that has happened?’

‘In return for certain favours – why not? It is a business arrangement.’

‘You will endorse the work of someone who is prepared to resort to blackmail when it suits him?’

‘Blackmail is not a word I like. I prefer the term “making an offer it is hard to refuse”. So much more elegant, don’t you think? Believe me, if I did not wish to agree to his suggestion I would have carried on with our arrangement. As it is, I would prefer that you forget our previous conversation. We have talked too much already. However, I felt I owed you some kind of explanation and an apology for any unnecessary work you have been put to. Who knows? I may be in a position to do you a favour one day. In the meantime, perhaps you would be kind enough to let me have the photograph back and we will call it a day.’

‘I’m afraid,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that will not be possible.’

‘Not possible? Don’t tell me that after all your moralising, Pamplemousse, you too have thoughts of straying from the straight and narrow? Because, if so, I warn you that you will find you have picked the wrong person. You will also find that Herr Schmuck does not take kindly to being crossed either.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. Really, the man was totally insufferable. ‘It is not possible,’ he said, drawing as much pleasure as he could from the few words, ‘because the photograph is no longer in my possession. It is in the hands of the Police.’

‘The Police!’ The remark had its desired effect. Ananas went pale, his normally suave manner deserting him along with his
polished accent. ‘What the devil do you mean by giving it to them?’

‘I didn’t,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse mildly. ‘They took it. There was a little confusion about the identity of the person playing what one might call the “leading role”. It is something I still cannot entirely see myself, but … as they probably didn’t even know you were here at the time, it was understandable.’

Ananas relaxed. ‘I have to admit to sharing your feelings on the subject. It is a cross we have to bear. But,’ his mind raced ahead of him, ‘in view of your past reputation, I agree it was an understandable error. People – even members of the police force – have a habit of putting two and two together and coming up with whatever number they choose to fit the bill.

‘I would not like to be in your shoes, Pamplemousse. I shall, of course, deny all knowledge of the affair, and in the circumstances I have no doubt the others in the picture will too. They will know on which side their bread is buttered. The negative, no doubt, is still in existence, but now that is your problem.’

Ananas pressed home his advantage. ‘Why are you here anyway? Herr Schmuck would not be pleased if he knew the truth – he would not be pleased at all. An ex-member of the Sûreté, wandering around with a white stick and dark glasses – pretending you have lost your sight, cluttering up the place with that dreadful dog.’

‘Pommes Frites?’ Ignoring the implied threat in the last part of the remark, Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. He was about to launch himself into the attack when there was a stirring at his feet.

Pommes Frites knew a compliment when he heard one; he was also very sensitive to the reverse side of the coin. Sensing that there was little love lost between his master and Ananas, he’d been keeping a low profile, trying to catch the drift of the conversation, but without much success. He was, despite his fearsome appearance when the occasion demanded, one of nature’s mediators.

He’d been considering the matter ever since Ananas first came into the room – watching points, pricking up his ears at changes in the conversation, and he’d come to the conclusion that there was definitely a feeling of acrimony in the air.

What was needed, in his opinion, was some kind of gift. It went against the grain because on the whole he was usually fairly careful in his choice of recipient; he wasn’t at all sure that he liked Ananas. In fact, sensitive to the tone of the last remark, he definitely didn’t, but if it helped his master in any way, then so be it.

Pommes Frites was a great believer in gifts during moments of crisis. Slippers were his speciality. He often fetched Madame Pamplemousse’s slippers if she came in with the shopping on a wet day and saw his paw marks over the floor. It almost always had a soothing effect.

Slippers were obviously out on this occasion, but his eye had caught something else that he felt sure would fill the bill. It looked like a very good present indeed. Reaching out with his paw, he drew the object towards him. Then, feeling very pleased with himself, he courteously offered it to Ananas and stood back to watch the effect. He wasn’t disappointed.

A smile spread slowly across Ananas’ face as he allowed Mrs. Cosgrove’s
culottes
to slip through his fingers, rather like a conjuror about to turn them into a complete set of the flags of all nations.

‘Good boy!’ Catching them deftly in his other hand, he slipped them into his pocket, then reached down to give Pommes Frites a friendly pat.

Pommes Frites stiffened. From the look on his master’s face he could see that he hadn’t done the right thing.

Ananas glanced around the room again. ‘My, we have been having fun, haven’t we? Tit, if you will pardon the expression, for tat.’ He paused with his hand on the door. ‘No photograph, no present back.
À
bientôt
.’

He made to close the door but Monsieur Pamplemousse swiftly intercepted him.

‘I imagine you will get your photograph back when the Police have finished interviewing the others involved. There is some concern about the state of their health. No doubt they will be in touch in due course.’

It was a cheap jibe, but the look on Ananas’ face made him feel better.

As he went back into his room the bathroom door opened and Mrs. Cosgrove appeared. He suddenly felt guilty. In the
excitement he’d totally forgotten her presence. But he needn’t have worried. Her eyes were shining as she closed the door behind her and came towards him.

He held out his hands to greet her. ‘I am sorry. I would have told you, sooner or later. Once you start something it is often difficult to go back on it. At least when we last met I was wearing my dark glasses.’

Mrs. Cosgrove coloured as the truth of the situation came home to her. ‘Oh! You mean all the time you spent in my room when I was taking a shower … Oh dear! What must you have thought?’