Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (9 page)

As they reached their room Pommes Frites brought his daydreams to a sudden halt. On an instant he froze into a position which Monsieur Pamplemousse had good cause to remember from many occasions in the past. It was as if a spring had been tightly coiled. A spring which powered twelve point five kilograms of muscle, flesh and bone, cocked and ready to be released at the slightest signal from his master.

Someone was inside their room.

Monsieur Pamplemousse let go of the harness, carefully removed his dark glasses and placed them in his top pocket, then stood back and prepared for action. He felt a tingle of excitement as his grip tightened on the door handle. It was quite like old times. Turning the latch so slowly it was almost impossible to detect any kind of movement, he waited until it was down as far as it would go and then pushed against the door with all his might.

As it shot open and they entered the room it would have been hard to say who was the most surprised, the sole occupant or them.

‘Do you always come through doors like that?’ Ananas exclaimed petulantly, leaping to his feet. To say that he looked as if he’d been nearly frightened out of his wits was to put it mildly.

‘Do you make a habit of entering other people’s rooms without first receiving an invitation?’ retorted Monsieur
Pamplemousse. He took a quick glance round. Everything seemed to be in place.

‘
Touché.
’ Ananas pulled himself together. ‘Normally, no.’ He crossed and pushed the door shut. ‘The fact is, I didn’t want to be seen hanging around outside and I didn’t know where you were. Also,’ he added cryptically, ‘I feel we should not be seen together.’

Without waiting for a reply he sat down and began mopping his brow with a silk handkerchief. He looked strangely ill at ease, not a bit like the blustering Ananas of the previous evening.

‘To tell you the truth, I’m in a spot of bother and I wondered if you could help.’

‘Me?’ Not by the wildest stretch of his imagination was he able to picture how he could possibly help Ananas, a man who seemed to have everything, including friends in the highest places in the land. Nor, for that matter, did he, for the moment at least, see any good reason why he should.

‘I know you, Pamplemousse. You are a man of the world. I know your
past
reputation.’ The emphasis on the penultimate word did not escape Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Why you are here, masquerading as a blind man, is not my concern. No doubt you have your reasons. And no doubt your little pretence is something you wish to keep to yourself.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a growing impatience. He had not liked Ananas from the very beginning; now his dislike increased with every passing moment. ‘Would you mind coming to the point?’

Ananas took the hint. He reached into an inside pocket and withdrew some photographs which he tossed onto the table. ‘The point is … these. They were placed in my room this morning.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the top one and glanced at it. His first thought was that someone, for whatever reason, had been to a junk yard and taken a picture of a pile of old statues.

‘You are holding it upside down,’ said Ananas impatiently.

Monsieur Pamplemousse rotated the photograph and gradually, as he examined it more closely, a kind of pattern emerged from the montage of arms and legs and thighs and
breasts. It was obviously some kind of orgy, but an orgy of such enormous complexity it was hard to tell who was doing what and to whom.

‘
Mon
Dieu
!
Sapristi
!’ An involuntary whistle escaped his lips. Only one part of the whole was clearly identifiable and that was the head in the middle. It was Ananas coming up for air. He looked at the other man with renewed respect. ‘When was this taken?’

‘Last night. I was feeling a little … restless. Travelling always does that to me.’ It was said so matter-of-factly it almost took Monsieur Pamplemousse’s breath away. He thought of his own travels and they paled into insignificance.

‘The trouble is,’ Ananas had the grace to look slightly shifty, ‘they’re mostly under age.’

‘Under age?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse took another look at the picture. ‘
C’est
impossible
!’

‘
Si.
’ Ananas peered over his shoulder. He pointed to one of the legs. ‘That one is fourteen. Her sister there is only thirteen.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave another whistle. ‘And that one? She looks thirty-five if she is a day.’

Ananas took a closer look. ‘Ah, yes, that is the mother. They are all a bit, you know …’ He tapped his head as if in doing so it absolved him of all blame. ‘It comes through living in the mountains. The long winter months when they are snowed in. There is a lot of inbreeding.

‘Anyway,’ he dismissed the subject. ‘The important thing is, someone is obviously trying to blackmail me. It is a warning. Next time there will be a note. It is not the first occasion and I cannot afford a second. It would mean the end of my career. Absolute discretion is essential – the local Police must not be brought in. I have given the matter a great deal of thought and you are the ideal person for the job.’

‘
Non
!’ cried Monsieur Pamplemousse vehemently. ‘
Non!
Non!
Non!
’
With each exclamation he brought his fist down on the table with a thud. ‘Give me one good reason why I should do such a thing.’

‘Because,’ Ananas took the photograph and held it up with the air of one about to play His trump card, ‘people in dark glasses should not throw stones.

‘It is my recollection that when you left the Sûreté it was
under a cloud owing to some indiscretion at the Follies. How many girls was it? Thirty-two?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse snorted. ‘A trumped-up charge. I resigned as a matter of principle.’

‘Nevertheless, mud sticks. There are many who still believe what they read in the
journaux.
Those same people will be quick to recognise the face in this photograph. They will think not of Ananas, but of Pamplemousse. I must admit that the supposed likeness is something I, personally, cannot see, although it has caused me some irritation in the past. Some comparisons are more odious than others.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed in disgust at Ananas as his voice droned on. He had no intention whatsoever of submitting to what was, in effect, a secondary form of blackmail, nor did he feel any great desire to render help to Ananas. On the other hand, to have his true identity revealed, not that of Pamplemousse, late of the Sûreté, but Pamplemousse, representative of
Le
Guide
,
would be a disaster. It would negate all his past work; it would be a betrayal of all that he now held dear. He decided to play for time.

‘I will consider what steps should be taken,’ he said stiffly.

‘
Bon.
I knew you would understand.’ Ananas reached out as if to shake him by the hand, but Monsieur Pamplemousse pretended to misunderstand. There were lengths to which he was not prepared to go. Instead, he picked up the rest of the photographs, detached one for safe keeping, and handed them over. ‘No doubt you will wish to keep these as souvenirs.’

Ananas paused at the door and gave a conspiratorial wink. ‘We are in this together,
n’est-ce
pas
?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse barely suppressed a shudder. The thought of being in anything together with Ananas was not a pretty one.

‘You will hear from me in due course,’ he said gruffly.

As the door closed he sat down on his bed and considered the next move. It was two o’clock. Two and a half hours before he took tea with Mrs. Cosgrove. He studied the photograph again. How much nicer the single English peach than a whole bunch of wild Pyrenean berries.

He lay back and closed his eyes, wondering if it would be Indian tea or China. Monsieur Cosgrove was probably a
retired tea planter. There were a lot of them in England. He probably had it shipped over regularly. Either that, or Earl Grey. Earl Grey from Fortnum & Mason. He’d seen it on sale in Fauchon. Yes, that would be it; Earl Grey tea,
pâtisseries,
and Madame Cosgrove. It was something to look forward to. Something to dream about in the intervening period. Ananas and his problems could wait. One thing was certain – they would not go away.

After a brief lunch of
Saucisses
de
Périgord,
followed by some
Saucisson
à
l’Anis
– a little known variety he hadn’t come across before, and which occasioned yet another note in his book – Monsieur Pamplemousse set off with Pommes Frites to reconnoitre the grounds of Château Morgue.

From the outside and in daylight, it looked even more forbidding, but as a retreat or fortress it was ideally situated. Built on a craggy tor, with the land falling away steeply on three of its sides, the only practicable approach was from the south, up the narrow winding road along which they had travelled the night before.

The Hautes Pyrénées were much nearer than he’d realised. He resolved to look at a large-scale map of the area when they got back to the room so that he could pin-point their position exactly.

He glanced up at the tower, wondering at the same time if he was being watched. There was no particular reason why anyone should bother. There were others around, taking the air as he was. It was simply that his white stick and dark glasses made him feel conspicuous. He was also aware that his coat smelt strongly of sausages. He hoped there were no guard dogs around.

The bottom half of the tower was almost windowless. Only the rooms on the upper floors saw the light of day, and they must be all of sixty metres from the ground. Anything might be going on up there. Anything – or nothing. He wished more than ever now that he’d taken note of the sequence of numbers Doctor Furze had used to operate the lift, so that he could find out at first hand.

A path ran round the outside and he was just about to set off along it when he heard the sound of an approaching car, followed a few moments later by the crunch of tyres on gravel. Walking back the way they had come he was just in time to see a hearse disappearing down the ramp into the underground car-park. There were four men inside it. He was too far away to be certain, but he could have sworn one of them – the driver – was the man he’d seen relieving himself against a rock the evening he arrived.

He waited and after a while his patience was rewarded. There was a whine and the hearse reappeared, the occupants sitting respectfully to attention. As it went past he instinctively reached for his hat, then stopped himself in time, but not before he’d confirmed his suspicions. It was the same men, probably in the same car, for that too had borne a Marseilles registration number.

Reflecting on how easy it was to take sight for granted, and how hard life must be for those who have lost it, having to rely on others for even the simplest scraps of information, Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to call it a day and go back inside, when he noticed that while his back was turned someone had already been at work over the entrance. The flag, which had been at half-mast when he began his walk, was now fluttering at the mast-head again. The whole episode had only lasted a bare two or three minutes. Herr Schmuck wasn’t joking when he said they tried to carry out such operations with discretion. Or, as Mrs. Cosgrove might have put it, they had got things down to a fine art at Château Morgue.

He felt Pommes Frites give a tug at the harness. The message was clear and to the point. He glanced at his watch. It showed sixteen-forty. Time for tea. Tea and Mrs. Cosgrove.

Whatever else might transpire, whatever undercurrents might be read into his invitation, the thought uppermost in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind as they made their way to the adjoining block, was that cakes of any description would make a welcome change from sausages.

He yielded to no one in his love and admiration for the sausage in all its many forms and variations, but deep down he had to admit that as a day to day diet,
sans
any
kind of vegetable, or even a slice or two of bread, to help them on their way, they had their limitations. More than ever, he was also looking forward to some liquid refreshment.

They arrived at Mrs. Cosgrove’s at almost the same moment as she did. Fresh from her work-out, she was dressed in a white track suit, and if at first she seemed a trifle taken aback to see Pommes Frites, she quickly recovered.

‘I suppose you have to take him with you
wherever
you go,’ she said brightly, as she opened the door for them. ‘Even indoors. I mean, I suppose he’s always with you, sort of … watching over you, seeing what goes on?’

‘Always,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly. ‘We are inseparable. Without Pommes Frites, pouf!’

‘Yes, of course.’ Mrs. Cosgrove eyed Monsieur Pamplemousse’s companion somewhat nervously. He was wearing his inscrutable expression, his eyes following her unwinkingly around the room as she hurried to and fro, drawing the curtains, placing a chair ready for his master and spreading a cloth over a small table by its side.

‘I’ll get everything ready and then if you don’t mind I’ll just take a quick shower and slip into something a bit more comfortable. I feel as if I’ve been put through a wringer.’

As she disappeared momentarily behind a cupboard door Monsieur Pamplemousse seized the opportunity to carry out a hasty inspection of his surroundings. The room was very little different in size to his own, but there the similarity ended. Apart from an air of semi-permanence, which perhaps wasn’t surprising, it reflected another, more private and slightly unexpected side to Mrs. Cosgrove’s character. Despite her slightly horsy, outdoor appearance, she was clearly very much into frills. Frilly pelmets decorated the dressing-table, matched by other frills’ along the edges of shelves and the bedside cupboard. The bed itself was even more extravagantly embroidered, a plumped-up
soufflé
of blue silk, edged with white lace. It looked soft and inviting, as far removed from his own orthopaedic mattress and plain thin quilt as it was possible to imagine. Altogether a very feminine room.

The dressing-table was festooned with knick-knacks and ornaments, from the centre of which the slightly incongruous, greyish figure of a man in a trench-coat against a leafy background stared at him from the surround of a black picture frame. He had his coat collar turned up, rather as if it had been raining when the photograph was taken, and he was peering in through a window.

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s guess as to the man’s identity was confirmed a moment later when Mrs. Cosgrove removed the picture in passing and deposited it face downwards in a drawer. Irrationally, he felt a sense of relief as she pushed the drawer firmly shut.

‘I do hope there’s enough to go round,’ she said pointedly, as she placed a plate piled high with cakes on the table beside him. ‘I hadn’t expected three to tea and there isn’t time to go down to the village again. Besides,’ she lowered her voice conspiratorially, ‘I’ll be for it if they find out. Patients aren’t allowed in the staff quarters. They’re out of bounds.’ She made it sound like a schoolgirl jape.

The temptation to say that as far as he was concerned the cakes looked exactly what the doctor might have ordered was hard to resist.
Babas,
éclairs,
almond creams, lay alongside
mille-feuilles
oozing with layers of
crème-chantilly
; it was a veritable symphony of the
pâtissier
’s art. He could hardly wait.

Pommes Frites had no such inhibitions. He smacked his lips noisily as he peered at the table.

Once again Mrs. Cosgrove eyed him regretfully. ‘Do you think he wants to go walkies?’

‘Walkies?
Qu’est-ce
que
c’est
“walkies”?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to get his tongue round the unfamiliar word.

‘
Une
promenade.
By himself. I could be your “eyes” while he’s gone. That is, if you’ll let me.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to picture persuading Pommes Frites of the need to go ‘walkies’ while there was a plate of cakes waiting to be eaten. He shook his head.

‘It is very kind of you, but no.’

‘Oh, well.’ The rattle of teacups as Mrs. Cosgrove rummaged in the cupboard was tinged with disappointment; it was also mixed with the clink of bottles.

Monsieur Pamplemousse shifted slightly so that he could get a better view. As he did so he caught his breath. He could hardly believe his eyes, but there in front of him, as large as life and twice as beautiful, he could see several bottles which were unmistakably from Champagne. Behind them stood a row of high-shouldered bottles which could only contain Bordeaux, and to one side – he shifted the other way – there was a bottle of Cognac. Not ordinary, run-of-the-mill Cognac, but a single vineyard Marcel Ragnaud. He knew it well, although it was not often he had the pleasure of drinking it.

‘Do my old ears deceive me,’ he asked casually, ‘or can I hear the sound of glass?’

‘You can.’ Mrs. Cosgrove opened the door wider still and removed one of the bottles. She placed it gently onto a shelf alongside two glasses. ‘I’ll put one out. Perhaps we can have it later. It’s a Gruaud Larose ’66 and I hate drinking alone.’

‘A
Gruaud
Larose
soixante-six
!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated the words reverently, savouring each syllable – almost as if he was sipping the very wine itself. It evoked memories; one of the great wines of that year.

‘George always says, if you’re going to be a wino at least do it in style. He never was much of a one for plonk.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s opinion of the British and of Monsieur Cosgrove in particular went up by leaps and bounds.

‘Madame Cosgrove …’ he began.

‘Do call me Anne.’

‘Anne.’ He felt slightly embarrassed. It was a long time since he’d asked a woman to call him by his Christian name. In the Auvergne, where he was born, there were people he’d grown up with who still called him by his surname. To such people informality came very slowly. ‘You may call me Aristide.’

‘Aristide!’ There was a chuckle from the direction of the bathroom. ‘I thought only people in school text books were called Aristide. There used to be one in mine – he had lots of uncles and aunts and he was always wanting the window open. I grew up thinking French people had a thing about fresh air.’
Her voice became slightly muffled. There was a hiss of water from the shower.

‘You were saying?’ She came back into the room, lifted the frilly cover of a wickerwork basket and dropped the top half of her gym suit through the opening. There was a wriggle and the bottom half joined it. Monsieur Pamplemousse drew in his breath sharply. Mrs. Cosgrove was quite, quite naked.
En
tenue
d’Adam
, as the expression went.

‘I was saying …’ He groped in the dark recesses of his mind for some clue as to what he might possibly have been saying and came up with nothing.
Sacré
bleu
! He must take a grip of himself. ‘I am sorry. It could not have been important.’

Legs wide apart, Mrs. Cosgrove stood in front of a full-length mirror for a moment or two pinning up her hair and then, catching sight of Pommes Frites watching her in the glass, she turned and hurried into the bathroom. The sound of the water changed.

‘Do forgive me,’ she called. ‘I shan’t be a moment.’

‘Please, take as long as you like.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave his glasses a quick wipe and then settled back in his chair, contemplating the stream of water as it cascaded down, over and around Mrs. Cosgrove, finding valleys here, seeking out fresh pastures there, changing course rapidly as she bent down to pick up the soap, then surging forward anew, carrying a mountain of foam before it as she lathered herself all over with a series of sensual, sucking noises.

Any pangs of conscience he might have had about his deception were quickly quashed. Without taking his eyes off the scene for a second, he reached out for a cake.

‘That’s good. I’m glad you’ve made a start.’ Mrs. Cosgrove stood facing him in the doorway, rubbing her back briskly to and fro with a large towel.

‘It’s a bit of a bore doing gym, but George always says I must look after my best features.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered which features George put top of his list. It would make interesting reading. From where he was sitting there were a number of highly desirable contenders. Did he place great store on Mrs. Cosgrove’s firm but generous
balcon,
each
poitrine
topped by a nipple still erect from its final dousing in cold water? Or was he, perhaps, an
homme
addicted to the delights of the
derrière
? As Mrs. Cosgrove turned and bent down to dry her toes he had cause to find his own list of priorities wavering. It was undoubtedly a
derrière
of considerable distinction. An
arrière-train
to be reckoned with, and one, moreover, which was also extremely close. He could have reached out and touched it. By his side he sensed Pommes Frites, nose twitching, entertaining what were probably not dissimilar thoughts. Anticipating his possible intentions, he laid a restraining hand on his head.

Mon Dieu! He felt for his handkerchief. Mrs. Cosgrove would never know how close she had come to being defiled. For no particular reason he found himself wondering how Alphonse would have coped with the situation. By now he would probably have dissolved into a pool of melted wax.

‘I say, are you all right?’ He suddenly realised she was talking to him again. ‘You’ve gone quite pale. And your glasses are all steamed up. Not that that matters, of course!’ She covered her embarrassment with a nervous giggle as she realised what she had said. ‘Forgive me. I keep forgetting.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled himself together. ‘It is nothing. Merely the steam from the shower.’ He wiped the lenses clean and then sat back, pretending as best he could to fasten his gaze on the bathroom wall behind Mrs. Cosgrove, but somehow the tiles refused to come into focus.

‘You are being very quiet.’ She opened the wardrobe door and began searching inside. ‘Is anything wrong?’

‘The art of speech was given to us to conceal our true feelings,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse primly. It wasn’t entirely apposite. In fact the more he thought about it the more he wondered why he’d said it, but it bridged a gap.