Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (2 page)

Monsieur Pamplemousse fell silent. When the Director had a bee in his bonnet it was pointless to argue, and on this occasion he was clearly dealing with not one bee, but a veritable swarm. He braced himself mentally for the next blow, wondering just how and where it would land.

‘I must say, Pamplemousse,’ continued the Director, ‘that in many respects you fall sadly short of the ideal. In fairness, I have to admit you are not alone in this. Looking at the group photograph taken during the staff outing at Boulogne last year, clearly many of your colleagues would fare equally badly were they to stand alongside our friend here, but their turn will come. However, for reasons which I won’t go into for the
moment, it is you whom we have selected for the honour of acting as a guinea-pig for what we have in mind.

‘For some time now the Board of Governors has been considering various ways in which we might expand our activities – broaden our horizons as it were. In many respects it goes against the grain, but one has to move with the times and there is no denying that some of our competitors have been forced into taking similar action. Michelin ventured into other countries many years ago. Gault-Millau currently involve themselves in areas which would make our Founder turn in his grave were he to be aware of them – magazines, special offers, things I trust we shall never do.

‘Nevertheless, it is our intention from time to time to test other waters, if I may coin a phrase. And first on the list is a survey of all the health farms in France.

‘Pamplemousse, tomorrow we want you to dip our toes into the waters of the Pyrénées-Orientales. A room is reserved for you at an establishment north of Perpignan. I wish you luck and I look forward to welcoming the new Pamplemousse on his return in a fortnight’s time.’

Having delivered himself of this salvo, a positive broadside of unexpected facts, the Director came to a halt opposite Monsieur Pamplemousse, all ammunition spent, and held out his hand.

‘
Bon
voyage,
Aristide,’ he said, eyeing the other somewhat nervously.

‘A fortnight!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated the words with all the disbelief and bitterness he could muster. ‘At a
health
farm
! Has
Monsieur
ever
been
to the Pyrénées-Orientales in March? All the winter snow will be beginning to melt. It will be cascading down the mountainside in ice-cold torrents. It is not
our
toes that will suffer,
Monsieur
, it is
mine.
I hate to think what might happen to them were I to risk dipping them into such waters. At the very least they will become frostbitten. At worst, gangrene could set in and before you know where you are,
pouf
! They will fall off!’

‘Come, come, Aristide, you mustn’t take me too literally.’ The Director stole a quick glance at his watch as he motioned Monsieur Pamplemousse towards the visitor’s chair. As he feared, it was almost lunch time. It was all taking much longer
than he’d planned. A good man, Pamplemousse, but not one to be hurried. Information had to be digested and slept on. A typical Capricorn, and from the Auvergne as well – a difficult combination; whereas the new model – the
Ideal
Inspector – he was definitely a Leo and from some less mountainous region.

‘Dipping our toes was perhaps an unhappy turn of phrase, but don’t you think, Aristide, the change will do you good?’

From the depths of the armchair Monsieur Pamplemousse listened like a man who was experiencing a bad dream. A man whose feet became more leaden the harder he tried to escape. He sat up as a thought struck him.

‘I have just remembered,
Monsieur
, it will not be possible. My car is due for its two hundred thousand kilometre service. Later in the year, perhaps, when it is warmer.’

‘Excellent news!’ The Director rubbed his hands together with a pleasure which was so obviously false that he had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘It can be done while you are away,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I will make all the necessary arrangements. After two weeks at the Château Morgue you will be in no fit state to drive anyway. The good Herr Schmuck and his wife will see to that.’

Sensing that he had inadvertently struck a wrong note, the Director hastily crossed to a filing cabinet and withdrew a green folder. Opening it up, he spread the contents across his desk. Recognising the detachable pages contained at the back of every copy of
Le
Guide,
the ones on which readers were invited to make their own comments, Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what was going to happen next.

‘It doesn’t sound so bad. Preliminary investigations have already been taking place.’ The Director sifted through the papers and after a moment or two found what he had been looking for. ‘Look, here is one taken at random. I will read it to you: “Just like a home from home. The food was plain but wholesome, avoiding the excessive use of cream common to so many establishments. The first time we encountered genuine smiles in all our travels through France. My wife and I particularly enjoyed the early morning tramps through the snow (obligatory without a medical certificate). Our only criticism concerned the beds, which could have been softer,
and the lack of pillows. It would also help if the bicycle racks were provided with locks. In many ways it reminded us both of our days in the Forces (my wife was an AT).”’

‘An
at
!’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘What is an
at
?’

The Director ran a hand round his collar and then glanced at the window, wondering if he should open it. The room was getting warm. ‘It was some kind of paramilitary female organisation operating from
Grande
Bretagne
during the war.’ He tried to sound as casual as possible.

‘You mean the people who wrote that report were
English
?’ exclaimed Monsieur Pamplemousse.

It figured. Memories of a week he’d once spent in Torquay during a particularly cold winter just after the war came flooding back to him. It had been his first visit to England and at the time he’d sworn it would be his last. An unheated bedroom. Everyone speaking in whispers at breakfast lest they incur the wrath of the landlady, a bizarre creature of uncertain temper who spoke some totally incomprehensible language and who wouldn’t let anyone back inside her house until after five-thirty in the afternoon. A depressing experience. Fourteen meals of soggy fish and chips – eaten out of a newspaper! He’d spent most of his time sitting in a shelter on the sea front trying to decipher the crossword.

‘It suffers a little in translation,’ began the Director.

‘May I see the others,
Monsieur
? The
less
random ones?’

‘They vary.’ The Director began to gather them up. ‘Some, perhaps, are not quite so enthusiastic.’

‘
S’il
vous
plaît,
Monsieur.
’

The Director sighed. It had been worth a try.

‘Not quite so favourable!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse could scarcely conceal his scorn as he glanced through the pile of reports. ‘
Sacré
bleu
! They are like an over-ripe Camembert – they stink! I have never seen such reports,
never
.
Not in the whole of my career. Look at them.

‘“The man should be arrested … his wife, too … Herr Schmuck is a …”’

There the report ended in a series of blots, rather as though the emotional strain of putting pen to paper had proved so great the author had emptied the entire contents of an ink-well over the report rather than commit blasphemy in writing.

‘That settles it!’ He rose to his feet. ‘I am sorry,
Monsieur
.’

The Director heaved another sigh; a deeper one this time. ‘I am sorry too, Aristide. I had hoped that your dedication to duty, the dedication we older hands at
Le
Guide
have come to admire and respect, would have been sufficient motivation. Alas …’ With an air of one whose last illusion about his fellow man has just been irretrievably shattered, he played his trump card. ‘It leaves me with no alternative but to exercise the authority of my position. An authority, Pamplemousse, which I must remind you – although speaking, I hope, as a friend, it saddens me that I should have to do so – you were only too happy to accept when you first joined us. You will be leaving for Perpignan on the seven forty-one train tomorrow morning. Your tickets are with Madame Grante.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse sank back into his chair again. He knew when he was beaten. What the Director had just said was true. He owed
Le
Guide
a great deal. The memory of that fatal day when, out of a sense of moral duty and against the advice of many of his colleagues, he had handed in his resignation at the Sûreté, was still very clear in his mind: the sudden cold feeling of being alone in the world when he’d walked out of the
quai
des
Orfèvres
for the last time, not knowing which way to turn – left or right. As it turned out, the Fates had been kind. Obeying a momentary impulse, he’d turned right and headed towards the seventh
arrondissement
.
And as luck would have it, his wanderings had taken him past the offices of
Le
Guide
.
There he had bumped into the Director; a Director who had cause to be grateful for the satisfactory conclusion to a case which, had it been handled differently, could have brought scandal on France’s oldest and most respected gastronomic bible.

But if the Director had cause to be grateful to Monsieur Pamplemousse, the reverse was certainly true. Hearing of the latter’s plight, he had, without a second’s hesitation, offered him a job on the spot. In the space of less than an hour, Monsieur Pamplemousse had moved from one office to another; from a job he had come to think of as his life’s blood, to one which was equally rewarding.

He rose to his feet. It had been a generous act, a noble act. A gesture of friendship he could never hope to repay. He was left with no option but to accede to the Director’s wishes. To argue
would be both churlish and unappreciative of his good fortune.

‘Come, come, Aristide,’ the Director allowed himself the luxury of putting an arm on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s shoulder as he pointed him in the direction of the door. ‘It is only for two weeks. Two weeks out of your life. It will all be over before you know where you are.’

While he was talking the Director reached into an inner pocket of his jacket with his other hand and withdrew a long, white envelope. ‘These are a few notes which may help you in your task. There’s no need to read them now. I suggest you put them away and don’t look at them until you reach your destination. What is the saying?
La
corde ne
peut être
toujours
tendue
.
All work and no play makes Jacques a dull boy? Who knows, they may help you to kill two
oiseaux
with one stone.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse blinked. For a moment he was mentally knocked off balance by the Director’s disconcerting habit of mixing his languages as well as his metaphors when the occasion demanded. Absentmindedly he slipped the envelope inside his jacket without so much as a second glance.

‘Oh, and another thing.’ As they reached the door the Director paused with one hand on the latch. ‘I think you should take Pommes Frites with you. He, too, has been looking overweight in recent weeks. I think he is still suffering from your visit to Les Cinq Parfaits. Besides, you may find him of help in your activities.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s spirits sank still further. It hadn’t occurred to him for one moment that he might not be taking Pommes Frites. Pommes Frites always went with him. He was glad he hadn’t thought of the possibility earlier, otherwise he might have said more than he had already and regretted it.

‘Dogs are not normally allowed at
Établissements
Ther
maux
,’ said the Director, reading his thoughts, ‘not even with the payment of a supplement. It is a question of
hygiène
.
Not,’ he raised his hands in mock horror at the thought, ‘not that one questions Pommes Frites’ personal habits for one moment. But the presence of dogs seems to be particularly frowned on at Château Morgue.
Chiens
are definitely not catered for. I had to resort to a subterfuge. I insisted on his presence on account of your unfortunate disability.’

‘My disability,
Monsieur
?’

The Director clucked impatiently. Pamplemousse was being unusually difficult this morning. Difficult, or deliberately unhelpful; he strongly suspected the latter.

‘The trouble with your sight. I made a telephone call on your behalf late yesterday evening in order to explain the situation. I’m sure Pommes Frites will make an excellent guide dog. It’s the kind of thing bloodhounds ought to be good at. You can collect his special harness along with some dark glasses and a white stick at the same time as the tickets.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director as if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses. ‘Perhaps,
Monsieur
,’
he exclaimed, ‘you would like me to learn Braille on the journey down?’

His sarcasm fell on deaf ears. ‘Such dedication, Aristide! I knew from the outset you were the right man for the job.’

‘But …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself clutching at straws, straws which were wrenched from his hand the moment his grip tightened. ‘Would it not be easier and infinitely more satisfactory if someone else went?’

‘Easier, Pamplemousse,
oui.
’ The Director’s voice cut across his own like a pistol shot. ‘More satisfactory …
non
! We need someone with your knowledge and experience, receptive to new ideas, able to collect and collate information. Someone totally incorruptible.

‘Oh, and one final thing,’ the Director’s voice, softer now, reached Monsieur Pamplemousse as if through a haze. ‘I am assuming that to all intents and purposes your
régime
has already begun. There is, I believe, a restaurant car on the
Morning
Capitole
.
However, I shall not expect to see any items from its menu appear on your expense sheet. It will be good practice for you and Pommes Frites, and it will put you both in the right frame of mind for all the optional extras at Château Morgue – such things as massages and needle baths. Make full use of everything. Do not stint yourselves. I will see things right with Madame Grante.