Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (5 page)

Ten minutes later the Château Morgue came into view, its dark bulk remote and impregnable. Probably built originally to keep others out, it now served to keep people in. Not, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse as they swung in through the gates, that there appeared to be anywhere to go other than the village if any of the guests decided to play truant.

The original stone building had been hideously embellished by a monstrosity in the shape of an enormously tall, circular tower. It betrayed itself as a twentieth century after-thought, and stood out like a sore thumb. Lights blazed from uncurtained windows at the top, but the rest of the building was in
comparative darkness. The inmates of Château Morgue must retire early, probably worn out by their treatment.

Before he had a chance to take it all in and absorb the geography of the surroundings, the driver made a sharp turn and scarcely slackening speed, they hurtled down a spiral ramp into a vast underground garage which must have been built at the same time as the tower.

As they pulled up beside some lift doors, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at the other cars already parked. Wealth radiated from their bumpers. He counted five Mercedes 500 S.E.Cs, two British registered Daimlers and a Rolls-Royce, an obscenely large American car he didn't immediately recognise, a sprinkling of B.M.W. 735s – two with C.D. plates – three Ferraris with Italian number plates, and a German Porsche. Somewhat incongruously a small Renault van with the words
Château
Morgue
–
Charcuterie
on the side was parked in a corner.

The chauffeur opened the rear door for them to alight, removed the luggage from the boot, and then spoke rapidly into a small microphone let into the wall. It was impossible to hear what he was saying. Seconds later the lift doors slid open. Barely acknowledging Monsieur Pamplemousse's thanks, the man ushered them through the opening, then reached inside to press the button for the ground floor. He withdrew, allowing the doors to close again. For whatever reason, dislike was now clearly written across his face and he seemed glad to be rid of them.

The inside of the lift was small but luxurious, the carpet unusually thick. On the back wall, near the floor, there was a hinged panel of the kind common to lifts in large apartment blocks – easily removable for the transportation of a coffin. It reminded Monsieur Pamplemousse of their encounter on the road a few minutes earlier. Perhaps one of the patients had died. If the truth were known, death was probably never very far away at a health farm. Many of the clients only went there in the first place because they had caught their first whiff of it on the horizon. Early warning signals from on high.

They stepped out of the lift into a circular foyer which was equally luxurious, like that of a small, but exclusive, hotel: discreet and reeking of understated opulence. The flowers in
the vases were out of season. A desk stood in one corner. Its only concession to being functional was a row of buttons set in a free-standing remote control panel, and a red push-button telephone alongside it. The large, leather covered chair behind the desk was empty. The whole atmosphere was like that of certain establishments he'd come across from time to time in the sixteenth
arrondissement
of Paris. Places where anything was obtainable provided you could pay the price, and nothing was ever questioned.

As they stepped out of the lift a man in a short white coat appeared from behind a screen and came forward to greet them.

‘
Bonsoir.
' Tucking a clip-board under one arm he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible bow. ‘Doctor Furze. Herr Schmuck sends his apologies. He hopes to make your acquaintance later. At present he is unavoidably detained with a patient. In the meantime, I am at your disposal.'

While he was talking Doctor Furze glanced down at Pommes Frites and, like the chaffeur before him, seemed surprised by what he saw. Again, Monsieur Pamplemousse got in quickly, forestalling any possible arguments. ‘This is Pommes Frites,' he said simply. ‘We are never parted.'

Although Pommes Frites' inflatable kennel was packed away in the bottom of the valise in case of emergencies, he had no intention of revealing the fact for the time being. If there was any talk of his being accommodated in the stables he would resist the idea most strongly.

After a moment's hesitation, Doctor Furze turned and led the way towards the lift. Swiftly, he pressed a sequence of numbers on a panel. Old habits die hard, and Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself regretting that his dark glasses prevented him from making a mental note of them.

Inside the lift the Doctor seemed even more ill at ease, rather as if he had discovered something out of place and didn't know quite what to do about it.

‘You are busy?' As Monsieur Pamplemousse posed the question he realised he was lowering his guard again.

Doctor Furze seemed not to notice. He pressed a button marked four. ‘We are always busy in the V.I.P. area. The regular patients are in the main building. You will not be
disturbed. Special arrangements can be made if you require treatment.'

It was the kind of remark – a statement of fact, that put a full stop to any further conversation.

The lift opened straight into another circular hallway, almost identical to the one on the ground floor, except for four doors let into the perimeter wall. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the lift doors apart, he hadn't seen any in the reception area. Perhaps there was some kind of medieval secret passage.

Doctor Furze crossed the hall and withdrew from his pocket a chain with a bunch of keys on the end. ‘I trust you will find everything to your satisfaction.' He stood to one side to allow Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites to enter.

‘No doubt you will wish to unpack before you order dinner. I will arrange for your luggage to be brought up. You will find the menu and the wine list in the bureau. The control panel for the television, video equipment and the electric shutters is beside the bed.'

Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed around. It had to be some kind of joke on the part of the Director. In the course of his travels on behalf of
Le
Guide
he'd been in some pretty plush places, but this one beat the band. Never before had he encountered such unadulterated luxury. The first room alone would have provided more than enough material for a feature article in one of the glossier Paris magazines; wallpaper from Canovas, crystal from Baccarat, Christofle china and silverware. On the far side of the room, through an archway, he could see a king-size four-poster bed and beyond that a bathroom. Another archway opened onto the dining-area with a table already laid, and to its right sliding full-length windows opened onto a balcony. He crossed to look at the view, but a passing cloud temporarily obscured the moon; by daylight it must be breathtaking. He resolved to have breakfast outside next morning whatever the weather.

Perhaps it was all pan of a carefully hatched surprise treat on the part of the management. After his last job of work he was due for a bonus. Vague promises had been made at the time, but somehow they had never materialised. If the thickness of
the carpet was reflected in the size of the bill, Madame Grante would be throwing a fit in two weeks' time.

Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly came back down to earth with a bump as he realised Doctor Furze was talking to him.

‘As I was saying, you may prefer to dine alone on your first night.' Again there was a slight hesitation. ‘If not, “arrangements” can be made. If you would like company … a girl, perhaps, or two girls, you will find a list of numbers by the telephone.' He glanced towards Pommes Frites. ‘It is short notice, but it may even be possible to arrange something for your dog. You must let me know his interests.'

Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself avoiding Pommes Frites' eye. Pommes Frites had an unwinking stare at times, combined with the ability to make it appear as if he were hanging onto every word, almost as though he could understand what was being said. It was nonsense, of course, but disconcerting nevertheless.

‘I think we are both a little tired after our long journey.' He felt like adding that he would hardly have known what to do with one girl, let alone two, but resisted the temptation. As for Pommes Frites, heaven forbid that he speak for him or his interests, but he shuddered to think what he might make of any local
chienne.

‘As you wish. If you change your mind, you have only to ring.' The bow was accompanied by the suspicion of a heel click. ‘I will leave you now. No doubt you will wish to take a bath.'

Doctor Furze opened the door, brought in the valise which had been left standing outside, and disappeared.

As he undressed, Monsieur Pamplemousse contemplated his reflection in a mirror which occupied one entire wall of the bathroom; a reflection which was unnervingly multiplied many times by another mirror let into the ceiling. One girl? Two girls? What manner of place had he come to? It certainly bore no relation to any of the reports he'd seen lying on the Director's desk. Perhaps they, too, had been a subterfuge? Perhaps even now they were laughing their heads off back at Headquarters. He had a feeling that if he'd asked for three girls it wouldn't have presented a problem.

Three girls! Luxuriating in a leisurely
bain
moussant
, he
devoted his thoughts to the postcards he would send back to the office; they would be a series of progress reports.

What was it the Director had said? ‘The change will do you good, Pamplemousse.'

Basking in a euphoria brought on by his surroundings, a euphoria further enhanced by the warmth of the bath and by the oils which accompanied it, by the Stanley Hall of London soap, not to mention a shave in the softest of water, followed by the refreshing sting of an after-shave lotion which bore the name of Louis Philippe of Monaco, he stretched out a toe in order to ease open the hot water tap a
soupçon
, reaching out at the same time for a Kir Royale, lovingly mixed from ingredients found in a well-stocked refrigerator by the bed. If things carried on the way they had begun, his first postcard would be to the Director himself. ‘Regret, problems greater than expected. May need to stay on for further week.'

No, on second thoughts, why stint himself? Why not play Headquarters at their own game? Why not make it two extra weeks? A month at Château Morgue would tide him over a treat until the spring.

They were sentiments which, although unspoken, clearly won the whole-hearted approval of his thought-reading companion in the next room, revelling in the luxury of his new surroundings while waiting patiently for decisions concerning the evening meal. Decisions which, knowing his master as he did, would be made quickly and expertly when the moment came, and in the fullness of time would bear fruit which would make all the waiting worthwhile.

Monsieur Pamplemousse was in his element. Gastronomically speaking, he couldn’t remember having had such an enjoyable time since the occasion shortly after joining the Force when, as a young Police officer, he’d been involved in his first big case outside Paris and had found himself being taken to meet Fernande Point at Vienne. Being shown round the great man’s kitchen – in those days the Mecca of
Haute
Cuisine
and a training ground for many of the great present-day chefs – had been akin to a small boy of the 80s being invited up to the flight-deck of Concorde.

Since taking a bath, his pen had been fairly racing over the pages of his
aide
mémoire
as he set about making preliminary notes for his report. In his mind’s eye as he scanned the menu he was already hard at work planning
déjeuners
and
dîners
for the days to come, adding, subtracting, shuffling around permutations of the many delights it contained, so that he and Pommes Frites would reap full benefit in the time at their disposal, bearing in mind also, that if they were to include visits to the gymnasium during their stay, energy lost through unaccustomed exercise would need to be replaced.

The Director must have been joking when he talked of
régimes
. Anything less like a
régime
would be hard to imagine. Faced with making a choice for one meal only he would have been hard put to reach a decision, but given that they were staying at Château Morgue for two weeks, hopefully more, he could afford to go wherever his fancy took him. Such an opportunity rarely came his way.

And if the menu was one of the most exciting he’d come
across for a long time, the wine list, too, had been chosen by someone with an eye to the good things in life, and possessed of an unlimited budget as well. It was a positive cornucopia of riches. The Bordeaux section in particular read like the pages of that bible of the wine trade, Cocks et Féret. The Lafites, for example, contained every vintage of note stretching back to the turn of the century. There were so many good things it almost made a choice more difficult; rather like finding oneself in the position of being able to go to the theatre after a long absence, and finally not going at all through sheer inability to reach a decision. In the end he opted for a bottle of ’78 Château Ferrière – from the Médoc’s smallest classified vineyard and a comparative rarity. He had never actually tasted it, but from all he had heard it would be a delightful accompaniment to the
Roquefort
, which, since they were in the area, was a must. It would also go well with the main course, earning bonus points from Madame Grante into the bargain for its very modesty.

Monsieur Pamplemousse made the appropriate note in his book and then read it back out loud for the benefit of Pommes Frites, receiving in return a reaction which could only be termed satisfactory. Pommes Frites had a sizeable vocabulary of culinary terms, culled from travels with his master. There were certain key words – like
boeuf,
which invariably caused his tail to wag, and it was only necessary to add the word
bourguignon
, and he would be on his feet in a flash and ready for action. In this instance the phrase
Magret
de
Canard
grillé
au
feu
de
bois
had the desired effect, and if anticipatory dribbles weren’t exactly running down his chin, it wasn’t because the choice failed to receive the full support of his salivary glands, but simply the fact that his mouth was so dry from lack of sustenance they were in need of a certain amount of priming first.

In fact, he couldn’t really see what his master was waiting for. If the final decision was to have duck grilled over charcoal for the main course, why not get on with it and leave the choice of the
dessert
until later. Desserts were his least favourite part of a meal anyway, and he was a firm believer in the adage that a steak on the plate was worth two meringues in the oven any day of the week.

It was a thought which gradually communicated itself to Monsieur Pamplemousse. Food took time to prepare and cook. Assuming the whole thing wasn’t part of some beautiful daydream from which he would suddenly wake, a mirage which would disappear as soon as he reached out to touch it, they were losing valuable time, which would be better spent over another Kir Royale. Taking the hint from Pommes Frites’ restless padding up and down the room, he looked for the appropriate button to press for service.

As he did so he caught sight of his white stick and dark glasses and was reminded once again that he had a role to play. Already he had unforgivably let it slip, first with the chauffeur, and then nearly with Doctor Furze. It wouldn’t do to let it happen again.

Having pressed the button he was immediately struck by the fact that service in the Château Morgue appeared to be on a par with its other facilities. He’d barely had time to write a few brief words to Doucette on a postcard he’d found amongst some other stationery – it showed a picture of Château Morgue and he marked with a cross what he judged might be his room as he always did – when Pommes Frites paused in his perambulations and pricked up his ears, staring at the same time in the direction of the hall. A moment later he heard the soft whine of a lift coming to rest outside, then the swish of a door opening. Hastily applying the stamp Monsieur Pamplemousse placed the card between the pages of his notebook, slipped the latter into the secret pocket of his right trouser leg, and then sat back, clasping the stick between his knees, hands on top, preparing himself for a discreet knock from without.

Prepared though he was for some kind of entrance, he hardly expected the onslaught that followed. The door burst open and a positive avalanche of people flowed into his room. First, Doctor Furze, white-faced and agitated, still clutching his clip-board, then two others, a man and a woman whom he barely had time to register before, to his even greater surprise, Ananas swam into view. But it was a very different Ananas to the one he had last seen on Toulouse station. With his jacket torn, tie missing, hair dishevelled, he was clearly in a filthy mood.

Before the others had time to speak, he pushed his way to the front and glared at Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘
Enfant
de
garce!
Imposteur!
Macquereau!
Opportuniste
!’

Clearly he was all set to work his way steadily through the entire dictionary of abuse, but before he could progress beyond the letter ‘O’, help intervened in the shape of Pommes Frites. Normally, despite his size, Pommes Frites was of a gentle disposition. He didn’t often growl. Growls he kept in reserve for special occasions. But when he did give voice to them they were of a kind which in his time had caused many an adversary to stop dead in his tracks lest it be followed by even worse manifestations of his displeasure. They began somewhere deep inside his stomach and followed what must have been a tortuous path through his intestines, gathering speed as they passed through various Venturi tubes, growing in volume as they entered and left a variety of echo chambers, before finally emerging between teeth which, when bared as they were now, could well have done service as some kind of industrial shredder.

The effect was both magical and instantaneous. Ananas stopped dead in his tracks and backed away, seeking protection from the others.

Doctor Furze spoke first. ‘I’m afraid there has been some confusion,’ he said, consulting his clip-board. ‘A case of mistaken identity.’ He glanced from one to the other. ‘Not unnatural in the circumstances.’ A snort from the direction of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s double made the point that he, for one, did not think it at all natural.

‘
Pardon
.’ There was a flash of gold from a Patek Philippe watch as the third man held out his hand to Ananas. ‘We will rectify matters immediately. I will arrange with your Manager for your luggage to be sent up while Doctor Furze escorts this – other person to his proper quarters.’ He turned to Doctor Furze who was hovering nervously on the sidelines, keeping a respectable distance between himself and Pommes Frites. ‘You have the details?’

For once Doctor Furze had no need to consult his board. The information was obviously indelibly etched on his memory. ‘Block C, room twenty-two, Herr Schmuck.’

‘Good. See that the change is carried out at once.’

‘Certainly, Herr Schmuck.’

While the others were talking Monsieur Pamplemousse caught a brief flicker pass between the woman and Herr Schmuck; a warning, perhaps? It was hard to say. Her eyes were as black as pitch; unnervingly so.

Herr Schmuck turned and gazed intently at Monsieur Pamplemousse, as if trying to probe behind his dark glasses. Suddenly, his arm jerked up and he clicked his fingers. Monsieur Pamplemousse, who’d been trying to rehearse focusing his gaze somewhere in the direction of infinity, reacted rather more slowly than he might normally have done. But once again he was saved by Pommes Frites, whose second warning growl came sufficiently quickly for it to divert attention away from his reflexive drawing back. To his relief Herr Schmuck seemed satisfied.

‘Come, Ananas,’ he said, taking the other’s arm. ‘You must allow us to entertain you until your suite has been made ready.’

Looking slightly mollified, Ananas gave Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites a final glare and then allowed himself to be led away. Madame Schmuck, if it were she, followed on behind without so much as a word or a backward glance. Monsieur Pamplemousse was left with the feeling that if it came to any kind of argument, she would have the final decision. He was also oddly aware of a faint smell of greasepaint.

‘If you wish to leave your bag,’ said Doctor Furze, ‘I will have someone attend to it.’

‘Thank you, no.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse had no desire to lose sight of his valise, particularly as it contained the case belonging to
Le
Guide
. Even though the latter was securely locked, he didn’t want to run the risk of anyone tampering with it, and the way matters were going anything was possible.

On the way down in the lift he was tempted to enquire if the menu in C Block was the same as the one he’d just been reading, but he changed his mind. Instead, as they emerged onto another floor, he took a firm grip of Pommes Frites’ harness. He needed all his faculties in order to concentrate on his role.

‘You will find the accommodation a little less luxurious,’ said Doctor Furze, as he led the way down a long corridor,
bare and featureless, with cream coloured walls and cord carpeting. ‘The suite you have just been in is reserved for the personal guests of Herr Schmuck himself, you understand?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse understood. Ananas was doubtless at Château Morgue under a reciprocal arrangement. A free holiday in return for a suitable endorsement.

‘Your room.’ Doctor Furze stopped outside a door. ‘I trust you will be comfortable.’

‘Comfortable!’ As he entered the room, Monsieur Pamplemousse could hardly believe his eyes. ‘Comfortable!’ He was about to hold forth in no uncertain manner, when he realised he was in no position to. But how could the man stand there and utter such falsehoods without even so much as a change of voice? Spartan wasn’t the word. Even Pommes Frites, who was rarely bothered by his surroundings, seemed taken aback. Apart from a single bed and a very small armchair, the only other furnishings were a wooden locker, a chest of drawers, a plain uncovered table, and a wooden bench. Thick pile carpet had been replaced by a piece of coconut matting. Through an open doorway in the far wall he could see a bath and a wash basin, alongside which was a set of scales.

‘It feels a little – different,’ he ventured, as he groped his way round the room under the pretence of getting the feel of it. His heart sank. The iron frame of the bedstead felt cold to the touch. ‘Am I right in thinking the heating has been turned off?’

‘
Oui
.’ Doctor Furze made no attempt to enlarge on his reply. Instead, he steered Monsieur Pamplemousse gently but firmly in the direction of the bathroom. ‘While you are in here perhaps you would be good enough to remove your clothing. I will make a note of your weight. We always like to do that on the first evening, then again in the morning. Patients usually notice the difference straight away.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse brightened. Perhaps dinner wouldn’t be long in coming after all. He wished now he’d ordered the
cassoulet
. It would have been interesting to see how much weight he put on. ‘That reminds me,’ he began, ‘you might like to help me with the menu. It is a little difficult.’

‘Of course,’ Doctor Furze picked up Monsieur Pamplemousse’s trousers and hung them on a nearby hook. ‘You will
find it easy enough to remember. Dinner is at eighteen-thirty sharp each evening. I’m afraid you have missed it tonight, but in the circumstances I will see what can be arranged. Normally, for the first five days it is a glass of
eau
.’

‘
Eau
?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Did you say
eau
?’

‘
Eau
.’ Doctor Furze helped him onto the scales. ‘
Chaude
, of course. It comes from our own special spring which rises beneath the cellars.’

‘After five days you will be allowed a little fresh lemon juice as a treat.’ He took a closer look at a digital display panel on the scales and gave a grunt of disapproval. ‘We are a little unhappy with our weight,
n’est-ce
pas
?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse drew himself up to his full height. ‘We are very happy with our weight,’ he said firmly. ‘It is what we are most happy with. May I have my trousers back, please?’ He suddenly felt resentful at having to display his failings in a cold bathroom.

‘One other thing,’ Doctor Furze glanced up from his board. ‘When you wish to use the bath, please let me know and I will arrange for the issue of a plug. It is not,’ he allowed himself the ghost of a smile, ‘that we are short of them. It is a simple but necessary precaution. One cannot be too careful. Once the treatment begins to take effect, many of our patients find it all too easy to get into a bath, but in their weakened state they occasionally have difficulty in getting out again.