Monsieur Pamplemousse woke the next morning to find the sun streaming in through the porthole above his bed. Reaching out, he felt for his watch. It showed a few minutes past seven-thirty. He must have slept like the proverbial log. They both had. Curled up in the middle of the floor, Pommes Frites looked as though he hadn’t moved so much as a whisker all night.
It was a moment or two before Monsieur Pamplemousse could summon the energy to struggle into a sitting position. Muscles he had almost forgotten he possessed acted as an aching reminder of all that had taken place the previous day and eventually spurred him into action.
He took a look at the view outside. It was a glorious day. Overnight the clouds had completely disappeared; almost as though a blanket had been rolled back. A thin layer of ground mist still covered pockets in the low-lying areas, but in another hour or so it would be gone.
The coach was parked near the lock. He’d heard it arrive back late the previous evening. Otherwise the only sign of life came from a little way beyond the bridge, where another barge was moored; a thin wisp of blue smoke rose from the chimney above its galley.
Having washed, shaved and sponged the worst of the mud from his suit, Monsieur Pamplemousse led the way up on deck, ready to face the world.
None of the crew were around and a notice on the board near the bar proclaimed a ‘free day’. The wording made it sound like an act of benevolence on the part of the tour company. Certainly the rest of the passengers seemed to be taking full advantage of it.
A flotilla of ducks zigzagged past the boat, heading towards the lock. Finding the gates at the far end closed, they turned and set off on the return journey. A line of multi-coloured statuary, gnomes, donkeys, and other fauna watched over them with dispassionate eyes. The windows of the lock-keeper’s cottage were still shuttered, a reminder, if one were needed, that it was Sunday.
The peace was short-lived. A grey van drew up, parked just short of the bridge, and an elderly gendarme climbed out. He went round the back to open the doors, and six men in wetsuits emerged. They padded across to the lock and peered over the side. The leader flipped open a walkie-talkie and began a conversation with someone.
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated, torn between wanting to see what was going on and taking petit déjeuner. Having gone without a meal the previous evening, breakfast won.
Returning Pommes Frites to the cabin, he bade him await his return and made his way up to the saloon.
The long serving table was already prepared. A basket of bread, another of pain d’épice – the local spiced honeycake – bowls of confiture, croissants, brioche, ham, cheese, fruit. He helped himself to a selection, putting a generous portion of ham on another plate for Pommes Frites.
Monique’s face appeared behind a window let into the galley door.
Monsieur Pamplemousse mimed fruit juice and café at her. She waved acknowledgement of the order and disappeared.
Glancing at the books on the library shelves while he awaited their arrival, he spotted the missing book. Deprived of its jacket, it looked as anonymous as those on either side; the title made it sound like a volume on gardening.
It wasn’t until he sat down that it crossed Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind to wonder how Abeille had got hold of her book in the first place. He was sure it hadn’t been in his cabin when he arrived, and equally certain she hadn’t been carrying it when she brought the tape to show him. She could hardly have been up to the saloon while the lecture was in progress. The obvious inference was that during the short time he’d been away she had returned to her own quarters to fetch it. But if that was so, what had happened to JayCee? Unless, of course, he had fallen asleep again. Pommes Frites probably knew the answer, but that was no help.
Café and a large glass of freshly squeezed jus d’orange appeared at his table. There was also a message for him to telephone the Director as soon as he could.
‘When did this arrive?’
‘Yesterday evening. Boniface was given it at the hotel in Dijon where the party was being held. It was late when he got back and we thought it best not to disturb you.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. The Director must have thought the matter urgent if he had spent his Saturday evening tracking down Le Creuset’s comings and goings.
‘Monsieur is up early.’ Monique noticed the extra plate of ham and brought him a knife and fork.
Monsieur Pamplemousse pretended to toy with them. ‘It is the best part of the day.’
‘Bien dormi?’
‘Oui, merci. Where is everybody?’
Monique made a steeple of her hands. Resting her head on the side, she pulled a face. ‘Sleeping it off. There was a big tasting in Beaune last night.’
As the door to the galley shut behind her he heard footsteps on the stairs.
‘Bonjour.’ It was Colonel Massingham.
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. He was in no mood for an early morning lecture, whatever the subject.
But Colonel Massingham seemed unusually subdued. He browsed amongst the croissants for a while before returning.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Please.’ It would have sounded churlish not to say yes.
‘Didn’t see you at the do last night.’
‘I was catching up on my sleep.’
‘Can’t say I blame you. Guess what we had to eat?’
‘Jambon persillé?’
‘And boeuf Bourgignon,’ said the Colonel gloomily. ‘There were two other coachloads. They’d been at it all day. The “twelve hour special”. Ten wine tastings, followed by a “gourmet” dinner. There was a ghastly sing-song afterwards.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected that Madame Ambert was right. Either you were a serious wine-maker or you were in the entertainment business. The two didn’t mix.
Colonel Massingham broke a croissant in half, eyeing the two ends with approval.
‘Can’t get them like this in England. Not the same. Not buttery enough. Give you indigestion.’
‘It is getting more difficult in France,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘True croissants belong to a more leisurely age. Making them requires time and dedication. Two factors which are in increasingly short supply.’
‘Same with the jam,’ said Colonel Massingham. ‘Only got to read the list of contents on the jar. “E” this, “E” that. Gelling agents, colouring agents, emulsion stabilisers, artificial sweeteners, preservatives – bit of a joke that, adding preservatives to preserves. Went round a jam factory once. Never again …’
‘Try this.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily pushed a bowl of confiture across the table before the other got into his stride. ‘Fruit, sugar, natural pectin …’
‘Merci.’ Colonel Massingham hesitated. ‘Changing the subject. Haven’t thanked you for letting me take over yesterday. It was most enjoyable.’
‘You did me a favour,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Not as big as the one you did me. Don’t know quite how to say this, old boy, but thanks. And thanks for the other, too …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at Colonel Massingham for a moment, wondering what he was about to say.
‘Tell you the truth, Mrs Massingham can be a bit demandin’ at times. Thinks of nothing else.’
‘She has told you?’
‘She always tells me,’ said Colonel Massingham simply. ‘And shell go on telling me until the next one. It’s like a drippin’ tap.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had a momentary picture of wasted lives. An arid desert inhabited by two people making the best of things, yet in one case at least, dreaming of an escape that would never happen; a voice crying out in the wilderness. Physically together, yet suffering the most dreadful poverty of all, that of loneliness. One never really knew what went on behind the closed shutters of other people’s lives.
‘I shall not tell anyone,’ he said.
‘Thanks, old boy. Do the same for you if I could.’
‘With respect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly, ‘I like to think that Madame Pamplemousse would not necessarily thank you.’
‘Ha! Good point that!’ Colonel Massingham chuckled at the idea.
They ate in silence for a while. It seemed to Monsieur Pamplemousse that there was more to come, if that were possible.
‘Tell you what, though.’ Colonel Massingham was the first to speak. ‘One good turn deserves another. You know that gal you’ve been knocking about with. Miss Gridlock I call her.
‘Thought you two were up to no good at one time, until Mabel told me what she told me. Anyway, the thing is, she’s not what she seems. Neither is he for that matter. For a start, the newspaper he says he owns doesn’t exist. I got that from one of the other Americans. They were all talking about it the other evening. Couple of phonies if you ask me. Thought I ought to warn you.’
It came as no great surprise, but Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked him all the same. He wondered what the Colonel would think if he knew about the tape. It would confirm his worst suspicions.
‘Not that it matters much. Don’t suppose we shall ever see them again.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sat up, suddenly alert.
‘I do not understand. How is that?’
‘They left yesterday afternoon. Gone to stay in Beaune according to Boniface. Hôtel le Cep. Good place. Stayed there once myself.’
Catching sight of a figure hovering on the other side of the galley door, Monsieur Pamplemousse dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and rose from the table. It looked as though Monique was about to bring in the Colonel’s coffee. If he wasn’t careful she would clear the table of Pommes Frites’ breakfast as well. He picked up the plate.
‘Please forgive me, Monsieur.’
Colonel Massingham stood and held out his hand. ‘Of course. Glad to have had the opportunity of a chat. Clear the air a bit.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook hands absent-mindedly. He had just remembered something about Patty Hearst and the Symbionese Liberation Army.
Back in his cabin, and Pommes Frites’ immediate needs catered for, he returned to the first of several marked paragraphs in Abeille’s book. It contained a detailed description of how the gang had made up special shells – 00 buckshot laced with ‘Ajax’ – their code name for cyanide – for use in sawn-off shot guns. For 00 buckshot read air gun slug. Another paragraph dealt with the drilling out of lead bullets. He wondered who had done the marking, JayCee or Abeille?
Leaving Pommes Frites to carry on with his breakfast, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way off the boat in search of a telephone. His cabin had yet to be made up, but he would have to take a chance on it happening. Being a Sunday he was probably safe for a while.
A television crew had arrived and were busy setting up their cameras. A girl in a zip-fronted red nylon wind-cheater and designer jeans took a quick look at herself in a mirror and began rehearsing her lines into a microphone. The lock-keeper and his wife had emerged from their cottage to keep a watchful eye on their territory.
Monsieur Pamplemousse approached the gendarme he had seen earlier.
‘M’sieur.’ He nodded towards the lock. ‘You have problems?’
‘Oui!’ The man saluted, then turned away.
Sensing that he wasn’t going to get very far by the direct route, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried another tack.
‘Is Lobinière still with you?’ He mentioned a colleague from long ago who had since risen to dizzy heights in the area. It had the desired effect.
‘Lobinière? You know him?’
‘Knew,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We worked together for many years.’
The man shook his head sadly. ‘He retired last year. His replacement is from the cradle!’ Raising his eyes to heaven, he held his right hand out, palm down, to indicate extreme youth. ‘Wet behind the ears.’
‘Alors!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse made sympathetic noises. ‘He will get over it. It is the same in Paris. The Sûreté is not what it was. They get younger every day.’
He was home and dry. A bond had been established. It was time for the big one.
‘I am in need of a telephone,’ he said casually. ‘I have an urgent call to make.’
The gendarme looked around to make sure the others were all busy, then he beckoned Monsieur Pamplemousse to follow him back to the van.
‘It is all yours …’ He pointed to a receiver under the dashboard. ‘Make sure you put it back properly or I shall be in trouble.’
He hovered for a moment while Monsieur Pamplemousse made himself comfortable. ‘Have we met before?’
‘I think not,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is possible you may have seen my photograph.’ There had been a time when never a week went by without his picture appearing in one journal or another. It still followed him around.
The Director must have been either waiting by the phone or still in bed, for he lost no time in coming to the point.
‘Where are you, Pamplemousse? I tried in vain to call you last night. No one knew where you were.’
‘I am in a police van, Monsieur.’
‘Not bad news I trust?’
‘No, Monsieur. Expediency.’
‘Good. Good. Excellent, in fact.’ The Director sounded genuinely relieved. ‘Things always seem worse at night, but yesterday evening when we were going to bed Chantal and I had sudden fears for your safety. We pictured you being taken unaware on some lonely towpath whilst walking off the effects of one of those gourmet meals depicted in the brochure … unable to call on Pommes Frites for assistance owing to his being in a weakened condition as a result of the strict régime …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the telephone, trying hard to picture Monsieur Leclercq and his wife discussing his possible plight while they were retiring for the night. It was yet another example of not knowing what went on behind the closed doors of people one thought one knew; what flights of fancy they indulged in.
‘It is kind of you, Monsieur. I am deeply touched, and I am sure Pommes Frites would be too, but may I ask why such thoughts entered your heads?’
‘Have you not heard?’ The Director sounded equally amazed. ‘It was on all the bulletins yesterday evening. Channel Two overran and I had to adjust the automatic timing device on my recorder for the start of a late night film.’
‘One becomes very detached from bulletins when afloat, Monsieur. It is like being in another world.’
‘In that case I will bring you up to date. There is a madman loose in your area; a sex maniac of the very worst kind. A serial underwear fetishist who clearly will stop at nothing in order to satisfy his evil cravings. Articles of intimate female attire have been found strewn along the banks of the Canal de Bourgogne – sometimes in the reeds, at other times hanging from trees. The search for bodies goes on.’
‘Bodies, Monsieur? But …’
‘Bodies, Pamplemousse. So far they have been unsuccessful, but they are putting every available man on the job.
‘That is why you must take care. Who knows how he will react if he finds himself cornered?’
Catching sight of the gendarme glancing in his direction, Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled his hat down over his forehead and sank below the level of the windscreen. ‘Do they have a description, Monsieur?’
‘Just an artist’s impression, and you know only too well what they can be like. It was provided by the owner of a village shop who narrowly escaped death or even worse …’
‘Worse than death, Monsieur?’
‘Old fashioned as it may sound, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely, ‘there are still those who can picture a fate worse than death.
‘The poor girl was forcibly detained on the premises while articles of clothing were removed.’
‘From her person, Monsieur? That is monstrous.’
‘No, no, Pamplemousse. From the counter, along with the entire contents of the till. Apparently it was the day for going to the bank, so there was a considerable sum.
‘One of the stolen items was found last night floating in a lock near where I believe Le Creuset is moored.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse drew in his breath. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he was hiding under the bridge. He peered over the top of the dashboard. Boniface had arrived on the scene and was half-heartedly cleaning his windscreen, trying to chat up the girl with the microphone at the same time. It didn’t look as though he was getting very far.
‘According to the girl’s description,’ continued the Director, ‘he was an unsavoury character, with staring eyes and slobber all down his chin.’
And that is just in black and white, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. Wait until Ici Paris does it in colour. Madame Blanc was certainly getting her own back.
‘What else is this man supposed to have done?’ he asked.
‘Things that can only be expressed by innuendo,’ replied the Director. ‘Apparently he could hardly keep his hands off her. The poor girl had to take refuge in the back room. She is too distressed to give any more details for the time being.
‘In the meantime there has been a strange turn of events in some nearby woods – the Fôret Dom de Detain-Gerguil. Two sniffer dogs picked up the scent of her assailant and while they were hot on the trail they made an extraordinary discovery. You will never guess what it is.’
‘Tell me, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse wearily. It was too early in the morning for guessing games, especially when he was assailed by a dreadful feeling that everything was closing in around him.
‘Escargots have been found, Pamplemousse; in an area where none have ever been seen before. One of the dogs went into the woods, not once but several times, and on each occasion it returned with a fresh one in its mouth! Furthermore they have been identified as the genuine article – helix pomotia.
‘The theory is they have moved north to higher ground to escape the worst of the weather.’
‘It is a long way for an escargot to walk, Monsieur.’
‘Not if they were desperate, Pamplemousse. It is, I believe, an omen of some kind.
‘Already it is being compared to the miracle of the loaves and the fishes. The police are keeping the exact location a secret, of course … but naturally the main purpose of the search has temporarily ground to a halt.
‘The President has been informed …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his head starting to swim as the enormity of the situation sank in. Reaching for a handkerchief he began mopping his brow. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the gendarme staring at him and realised to his horror that the ‘handkerchief’ he was using had a lace edge to it. He hastily replaced the article inside his pocket.
‘That is terrible, Monsieur. He must be disinformed as soon as possible. There has to be some other explanation. They could have been left behind by someone on a picnic …’
‘In this weather? I ask you, Pamplemousse, is that likely?’
‘Perhaps they are imported?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse desperately.
‘Heaven forbid! Black armbands will be worn in Dijon if that is the case.
‘But all is not gloom. I have one piece of good news for you. It seems they have established the identity of the man I spoke about yesterday; the one who was found in the wine press. His picture was in this morning’s journaux. His name is Ponchaud and he is a tax inspector. Apparently he was sent to investigate the peripheral activities of some of the Burgundian wine-makers. The tie-in between vineyards and other enterprises in the world of travel was high on his list. Money changing hands in return for services rendered. Tour companies have their favourite stopping places … palms are greased.
‘He was found prowling on Madame Ambert’s estate and some of the workers decided to teach him a lesson. They plead innocence, of course, saying they thought he was a common or garden thief. I have my doubts, but it will be hard to prove otherwise.
‘There is a picture of him in a hospital bed. A rather pathetic figure. According to the report he couldn’t justify his expenses taking the trip on your boat so he tagged along on foot. His catchphrase “I mingle, then, when the moment is right, I pounce” has a hollow ring to it now. He pounced once too often and in the wrong place.’
‘He was lucky he had a strong suitcase with him,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They might have given the screw an extra half turn for luck.’
‘You will never guess what was inside it,’ said the Director.
‘Some half-eaten sandwiches … a pomme … some journaux … a camera …?’ hazarded Monsieur Pamplemousse.
There was a long pause. ‘You really are an incredible homme, Aristide,’ said the Director. ‘It is no wonder I turn to you on occasions like this.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt better. Four out of four wasn’t bad. Perhaps his luck was changing.
‘I gather you have seen my aunt.’
‘I shall be seeing her again shortly, Monsieur.’
‘Good. She sounded somewhat down when I spoke to her yesterday evening; in need of counsel. The whole business with Ponchaud has upset her. The very thought of being under suspicion in that way is alien to her way of doing things. I will tell Chantal. She will be pleased. In the meantime, Aristide, take great care. We cannot afford to lose you. Let us hope the fiend is soon caught.’
‘I think I may say, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that I am as safe from his attentions as anyone.’
As he hung up he caught sight of the girl with the microphone. She was interviewing one of the divers. He was holding a dripping bicycle.
Retrieving the card Madame Ambert had given him, Monsieur Pamplemousse dialled the number.
It was some while before anyone answered and when they did it was an unfamiliar male voice.
‘Tell Madame Ambert I will be with her as soon as possible.’ He gave his name, then hung up before any offers were made to collect him.
Luckily the portion of deck where the bicycles were stored was facing away from the lock, but it could only be a matter of time before the police put two and two together and equated the trail of scattered lingerie with the movement of Le Creuset. The question of the snails was at best only a temporary diversion. Now was probably as good a time as any to put as much distance as possible between himself and the boat.
Making his way to the coach Monsieur Pamplemousse approached Boniface. ‘Would you care,’ he said, feeling for his wallet, ‘to do Pommes Frites and myself a very great favour on your day off?’
Boniface waited until they reached Sainte-Mariesur-Ouche, some ten or twelve kilometres back down the canal, before cutting across the mountains in the direction of Gevrey-Chambertin. There had been a bad moment soon after they set off when Monsieur Pamplemousse thought they were going to travel via the road he had cycled down the day before, but there was a ROUTE BARRÉE notice at the junction. A gendarme waved them back. The Director had been right about the escargots being taken seriously.
Everywhere he looked there were men out with their shotguns at the ready; sometimes in small parties, more often than not alone or with their dogs.
‘It is worse in September,’ said Boniface. Removing both hands from the steering wheel, he took a pot shot at an imaginary rabbit. ‘On the first day of the hunting season it is not safe to be out. People shut themselves in their houses.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if Boniface had heard the latest news. Quite possibly not. It was a topsy-turvy world where people miles away, sometimes on the other side of the globe, had more up-to-date information than did the people on the spot. He made no mention of the rapist. Topics ranged from the change in the weather to a long saga about his childhood in Italy. It was a relief when they turned off the main road. At least the narrow, winding minor road demanded his full attention. Even Pommes Frites looked relieved to be left in peace.
Their departure from Le Creuset had been necessarily abrupt, the explanation perfunctory; an urgent message to return to Paris covered a multitude of sins. At least he’d been spared having to shake hands all round.
Dropping down from the hills, Boniface turned off to the right in Gevrey-Chambertin, following the route they had taken on the very first evening.
Shortly afterwards Clos Ambert-Celeste came into view.
As they drove in through the entrance gates Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed something he had missed on the first occasion. At the end of each row of vines there was a dark red rose bush. He wondered if they were Papa Meilland. It was one of Doucette’s favourites.
The planting of rose bushes in a vineyard was an old fashioned conceit, more often seen in Bordeaux or the Rhône valley than in Bourgogne. The origins of the custom were lost in time. Some people maintained it was to stop horses accidentally trampling on the vines when they reached the end of a row, others argued that was nonsense, horses were much too sensible to do any such thing, subscribing instead to the theory that since roses were invariably quicker than vines to show signs of blight or other disease, they acted as Nature’s warning. Papa Meilland was certainly prone to mildew; it was one of its few drawbacks.
Whatever the reason, it was pleasant to see old traditions being kept alive, if only as a token gesture. It was typical, too, of Madame Ambert. Her brother would probably be all for grubbing the bushes up on the grounds that they were an unproductive use of the land.
There were vines on either side. They ran parallel to the long, straight gravelled drive as it led them up a gentle slope towards a grey stone house standing on the brow of the hill. The grapes were starting to fill out and change colour, from green to russet red. In other circumstances he would have dearly liked to stop and take some photographs. Perhaps another time.
Fabrice Delamain’s Mercedes was parked in a circular area outside the house and Boniface drew up alongside it. An open garage door revealed two other cars, one of which he recognised as Madame Ambert’s. To the right of the house he could see a couple of battered Renaults and a moped, otherwise all was quiet.
Boniface helped him with the luggage and they shook hands.
‘Next year, Monsieur?’
‘Oui. L’année prochaine.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated the well-worn phrase automatically, but next year was a long way ahead. He doubted if it would happen.
Waving goodbye, he watched the coach disappear back down the driveway, then he turned and, leaving Pommes Frites to watch over the bags, made his way to the front door. It was opened by a man, he presumed the same one who had answered the phone earlier. It felt colder inside than it did outdoors.
Madame Ambert received him in the drawing room. It was furnished in much the same way as the hall, a reflection of the house itself; old, plain and serviceable. The Director’s aunt evidently belonged to a stratum of society who lived well but considered creature comforts a sign of weakness and had schooled themselves to do without such things; what had been good enough for their forefathers was good enough for them. The long curtains reaching to the floor were partly drawn, shutting out the sunlight and casting the room in shadow. Even so, as they exchanged a few pleasantries he could see Madame Ambert looked pale. Her eyes were red, as though she had recently been crying.
‘It is good of you to come.’
‘I am sorry to be late. I’m afraid there were complications.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse saw no point in going into details. ‘Your brother is with you?’
‘You wish to see him?’
‘It is partly why I am here.’
‘In that case, please follow me.’
Madame Ambert led the way out of the drawing room and along a stone-flagged passage towards the back of the house. Pausing before she opened it, as though gathering strength, she stood back for Monsieur Pamplemousse to enter first.
He found himself in what appeared to be an office cum workroom. There was a large desk under the window, and bookshelves lined the walls. As before, the curtains were drawn and it took him a moment before his eyes grew accustomed to the level of light.
Dominique Ambert was much as he remembered him from the brief encounter on the night of the pageant. A little smaller, perhaps, but that might have been the way he was sitting. He was dressed for a shoot rather than a concert; corduroy trousers and a hunting jacket.
He returned Monsieur Pamplemousse’s gaze open-mouthed; his eyes reflecting a mixture of surprise and fear, as well they might, for he had been shot in the head and he was very, very dead.