With his suitcase stowed away in the compartment at the end of the carriage, his overcoat and white stick on the luggage rack above his head, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed his dark glasses, gathered the little that was left of his breath, and gazed gloomily out of the window of the Morning Capitole as it slid gently out of the deserted quais of the Gare d’Austerlitz and then rapidly gathered speed.
The day had got off to a bad start. Trouble had set in almost as soon as they left home, a fact which Pommes Frites, already curled up on the floor as he addressed himself to the task of catching up on some lost sleep, would have been only too happy to confirm had he been asked.
Any fond hopes Monsieur Pamplemousse might have cherished about his ‘condition’ conferring little extra privileges en route had been quickly dashed. The cup containing the milk of human kindness ran dry very early in the day on the Paris Métro, as he discovered when he tried to board an already crowded train at Lamarck-Caulaincourt. The ‘poufs’ and snorts and cluckings which rose from all sides as he attempted to push his way through to the seats normally reserved for les mutilés de guerre, les femmes enceintes and other deserving travellers in descending order of priority, had to be heard to be believed. In no time at all he found himself back on the platform, glasses askew and suitcase threatening to burst at the seams. Had he not managed to get in some quick and effective jabs with his stick, Pommes Frites might well have suffered a bruised tail – or worse – as the doors slid shut behind them and the train went on its way.
Seeing him standing there and misinterpreting the reason, a more helpful morning commuter who arrived on the platform just in time to see them alight, came to the rescue and escorted him back to the waiting lift. Monsieur Pamplemousse was too kindly a person to throw this act of friendship back into the face of his unknown benefactor, so he allowed himself to be ushered into the lift, hearing as he did so the arrival and departure of the next train.
Then, on emerging at the top, he’d collided with an ex-colleague from the Sûreté. The look on the man’s face as he caught Monsieur Pamplemousse in the act of removing his dark glasses in order to get his bearings, plainly mirrored his embarrassment and contempt. The news would be round all the Stations by now; probably even the quai des Orfèvres itself. ‘Old Pamplemousse has really hit rock bottom. He’s trying the “blind man on the Métro” routine now. Things must be bad. First the Follies and now this. No doubt about it, an oeuf mauvais.’
The prospect through the window as he took his seat on the Morning Capitole was grey. The Seine, from the few glimpses he managed to catch, looked dark and uninviting. Ahead of them lights from anonymous office blocks twinkled through the mist, beckoning to the trickle of early arrivals hurrying to beat the morning rush.
Suddenly, as the Seine joined up with the Marne and then disappeared from view, he felt glad to be heading south and away from it all. He was conscious of a warm glow which owed as much to the thought of going somewhere fresh as it did to the unaccustomed flurry of exercise. It was a feeling that was almost immediately enhanced by an announcement over the loudspeakers that breakfast was about to be served. To the devil with the Director and his instructions.
Giving Pommes Frites a warning nudge, he rose to his feet. If the other passengers on the train felt as he did there would be a rush for tables.
If only Ananas had not been on the same train; worse still, he occupied the same carriage. That was the unkindest cut of all – really rubbing salt into the wound, the kind of bizarre coincidence he could well have done without. Experience in the Force had taught him that most people have a double somewhere in the world, but more often than not their paths never cross, or if they do, they pass each other by in the street without recognising the fact, aware only of experiencing something slightly odd – a feeling of déjà vu.
It was his particular misfortune to have a double whose face was constantly in the public eye, made larger than life by being plastered on hoardings the length and breadth of France, and consequently in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s opinion – despite the element of self-criticism it implied – made ten times less inviting.
As he led the way along the corridor towards the restaurant car, he glanced into the compartment where Ananas was holding court. Adopting a pose which ensured that his profile was clearly visible to anyone passing, he was deep in conversation with a somewhat vicious-looking individual. Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected that Ananas’ companion looked as if he might have even stranger proclivities than his master, which would be saying something.
If Ananas recognised himself in Monsieur Pamplemousse he showed no sign, but then he probably didn’t encounter the same problems. On occasion even the simple act of eating in a restaurant became something of a bore, with its routine of pretended mistaken identity, while other diners tried to make up their minds whether or not they were in the presence of the real thing.
Croissants, toast, confiture and café arrived with lightning speed, and by the time they were passing through Brétigny he was sipping a glass of jus d’orange and feeling better.
He wondered idly where Ananas might be going at this time of the year. Perhaps his television programme was having a break. He was too sharp an operator and had too much at stake to let someone else take over while he was away. For all their present loyalty, the public were a fickle lot and he would be well aware of the double risk of having either a stand-in who was more popular than himself or someone a great deal less so. Either way he could stand to lose.
Ananas had first appeared on the scene some years before as ‘Oncle Hubert’ on a children’s television programme. ‘Oncle Hubert’ had a ‘way’ with children. Particularly, as things turned out, with little girls.
Monsieur Pamplemousse could have told his many fan clubs a thing or two. There had been a near scandal which, in the less liberal climate of the time, would have meant the end of his career had it ever come to light. As it was, strings must have been pulled by someone on high, for ‘Oncle Hubert’ had conveniently disappeared for a while, ostensibly suffering from nervous exhaustion due to overwork.
When he resurfaced under his adopted name, it was as Chairman of a particularly infantile afternoon panel game, which by some quirk of fate caught the public’s imagination. In a relatively short space of time the viewing figures rocketed to the top, carrying Ananas with them and the accolade of a prime spot two evenings a week. From that moment on he had never looked back. Almost overnight he became that strange product of the twentieth century – a ‘television personality’ – whose views on matters of moment were sought and listened to with awe. Without doubt, Ananas would be careful not to court disaster again.
At eight twenty-five they reached the start of the twenty kilometres or so of concrete monorail north of Orleans – test-bed for an Aerotrain that never was. By then the sun had broken through and Pamplemousse’s mood was lifting. Even the sight of Ananas at a table further down the restaurant car didn’t dampen his spirits. Like royalty, Ananas never soiled his hands with money, even when the need arose – which wasn’t often, so the bill was being paid by his companion. A good deal of his income came from payments in kind. He was careful to endorse only those products which would enrich his own life – shoes, shirts, suits, the furnishings of his several houses; all were of the very best. Cars met him wherever he went, doors opened at his approach. The story was told that when he did pay for something by cheque it was seldom cashed, the recipient preferring to have it framed as a souvenir, hoping it would increase in value in the fullness of time.
Settling back preparatory to paying his own bill, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached down and fondled Pommes Frites’ head. He received an immediate response in the form of a luxurious and long drawn out stretching of the legs and body. It started at the tips of the forepaws and ended up some moments later at the tail. Pommes Frites liked travelling by train; there was far more room than in his master’s car, and it wasn’t subject to sudden and unexpected swervings, nor bouts of thumping on the steering wheel by the driver. At least, he hadn’t heard any so far. He was also badly in need of reassurance, and reassurance had been very thin on the ground so far that morning.
The fact of the matter was, Pommes Frites felt in a state of utter confusion. He didn’t know for sure whether he was coming or going. Or, to put it another way, he knew he was going somewhere, but he had no idea where or for what reason.
Normally it wouldn’t have troubled him. Normally he looked forward to journeys with his master and he didn’t really mind where they went, but the present trip seemed different. Ever since Monsieur Pamplemousse arrived home the previous afternoon he had been acting very strangely. First of all there had been the business with the glasses. No sooner had he got indoors and taken his shoes off, than he’d put on some dark glasses, darker, much darker than the ones he sometimes wore when he was driving his car; so dark you couldn’t even see his eyes. Then he’d started groping his way around the apartment as if he couldn’t see where he was going – which wasn’t surprising in the circumstances. Madame Pamplemousse hadn’t been at all pleased when he’d knocked over a vase full of flowers, particularly when they landed on the same patch of carpet he, Pommes Frites, had been in trouble over only a few days before.
But things hadn’t ended there. There was also the strange contraption he’d been made to wear. At first he’d thought it was meant for carrying the shopping, something he wouldn’t have minded doing at all. Pommes Frites liked shopping and he always accompanied his master on his visits to the local market. But no, it was obviously meant to serve some other purpose. What purpose he wasn’t sure as yet, except that it had to do with crossing roads. Or rather, not crossing roads.
That was another thing. Normally, Monsieur Pamplemousse took charge when there was any traffic about and Pommes Frites happily followed on behind, secure in the knowledge that if he stuck close to his master’s heels no harm would come to him.
Now his master had taken to hovering, holding on to the new collar and tapping the edge of the pavement with a stick – almost as though he was afraid to venture any further for fear of being knocked down. They had only been out once, but in Pommes Frites’ view, once was more than enough. He’d been glad to get back home again in one piece. One way and another his confidence had been badly sapped.
Last, but by no means least, there had been the encounter with the second Monsieur Pamplemousse; the one he’d caught a brief glimpse of when they boarded the train.
True, on closer inspection the new one was quite different from the version he had known and loved for a number of years. One quick sniff had established that straight away. But outwardly the likeness had been remarkable: the same figure, the same way of walking, the same face, even down to a similar though not so dark pair of glasses.
It was all very confusing and for the time being at least, totally beyond his comprehension. That being so, he had given up thinking about it. Pommes Frites belonged to the school of thought that believed if you waited long enough problems had a habit of solving themselves, and it was pointless losing too much sleep over them.
All the same, he was glad to feel the touch of his master’s hand. It signified that at long last things were returning to normal, and he felt in a much better frame of mind as he followed Monsieur Pamplemousse out of the restaurant car; so much so he scarcely gave the ersatz edition a second glance when they passed his table.
Back in the compartment, Pommes Frites gave the scenery a cursory inspection through the window and then resumed his nap, while his master buried himself behind a journal.
Châteauroux and Limoges came and went unremarked, and as they drew out of Brive-la-Gaillarde, Monsieur Pamplemousse, satisfactorily up to date on current happenings in the world at large, rose and made his way towards the dining car again in order to investigate the possibility of an early déjeuner. He quickly shelved the idea. Ananas was already ensconced at a table, holding forth loudly on the subject of some coquilles St. Jacques which were apparently not to his liking. He was giving the waiter a dressing down in no uncertain terms, much to the obvious embarrassment of the other diners. Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected wryly on the aptness of the choice of dishes, for was not St. Jacques the patron saint of money-makers? The episode left a nasty taste in his mouth and quite put him off the thought of eating. He felt relieved he hadn’t woken Pommes Frites; his change of plan would have been hard to explain. It took a lot to put Pommes Frites off his food.
By Cahors hunger pangs had started to set in, and he was beginning to regret his decision. It wasn’t until thirteen fourteen precisely, as they entered the station at Toulouse, that there occurred one of those rare events which break through the thickest cloud and cause the sun to shine, restoring at one and the same time one’s faith in the world.
As they drew to a halt they were assailed on all sides by the sound of cheering. Somewhere towards the front of the train a band was playing martial music, and as he went to open the door at the end of the carriage he caught sight of a group of men waving a large banner.
Toulouse, for whatever reason, seemed to be en fête, and the arrival of the Morning Capitole was obviously the high spot of the day.
Reacting rather faster than his fellow passengers, Ananas took in the situation at a glance and pushed his way past, waving to the crowds as he went. Donning his sunglasses in order to pay lip service to the pretence of travelling incognito, he paused momentarily to adjust his composure, and then emerged in order to greet his admirers.
The effect was magical. A great cheer went up from the waiting throng as they recognised him and word went round. A moment later he disappeared from view, swallowed up in a sea of admirers, only to reappear again seconds later as he was lifted shoulder high. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that his smile looked somewhat fixed, as though the reception was exceeding anything even he had anticipated.
For a brief moment Monsieur Pamplemousse felt almost sorry for him. He wondered if it was like that wherever he went. In his time he’d had his own share of public attention, but it had always been a thing of the moment, a brief period of glory when he’d been responsible for solving a particularly juicy cause célèbre. The day after it was usually forgotten, overtaken by other events. Nowadays he was all too grateful for the strict anonymity that his work for Le Guide imposed. Never to be able to go anywhere without such goings-on must be dreadful.
Shortly afterwards Ananas’ aide de camp appeared, struggling beneath a large assortment of monogrammed luggage. He didn’t look best pleased.
Monsieur Pamplemousse began gathering together his own belongings. At least the platform was now clear. He glanced at his watch. They had plenty of time to catch the connection to Perpignan.
Climbing down onto the platform he paused to have a brief word with the attendant.
‘Au revoir. Merci.’ He pressed a small offering into the man’s hand. It disappeared with all the professional skill of one who earned a good proportion of his living by such sleight of hand. But it was worth it. Realising that Pommes Frites was sharing the breakfast the man had been more than generous with the portions.
‘Merci, M’sieur.’ The attendant was looking very pleased about something. After the unpleasantness with Ananas over déjeuner, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t believe he was deriving satisfaction from the latter’s reception.
‘Do you believe in justice, M’sieur?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘Most of the time. Although I must admit to a certain wavering when I witness the kind of demonstration that has just taken place.’
The attendant laughed. ‘That is what is known as “rough justice”, m’sieur. It may get even rougher when both sides find out their mistake. It is not a demonstration of love. It is a manifestation. Une grève sauvage, a wild-cat strike. It is over a matter of rosters. We are the last train they are allowing in today.
‘I think it is one product Monsieur Ananas may regret endorsing – especially when his picture appears in the newspapers tomorrow. It could well lose him his free life pass on S.N.C.F.’
He turned and looked at Monsieur Pamplemousse with some concern. ‘M’sieur is travelling far?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘We hoped to reach Perpignan.’
‘In that case you should hurry. The train will be coming into quai trois. They are allowing the connection out because the driver lives in Narbonne, but who knows? They may yet change their minds. It may not take you on to Perpignan, but it will be a start.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked him and hurried down the steps and up the other side to where a train from Bordeaux had just arrived at the adjoining quai.
He paused as the attendant’s voice called over to him. ‘M’sieur.’
‘Oui?’
‘Forgive my saying so, but has anyone ever told you …’
‘Oui,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Many times.’
The attendant shrugged. ‘Tant pis. C’est la vie.’
‘C’est la vie!’ The man was right – it was no use minding. He climbed into the waiting Corail. After the Capitole it felt like boarding an aeroplane. He almost expected to be told to fasten his seat belt.
The cheers from the other end of the platform had grown more sporadic; he could detect a note of disillusion. Perhaps Ananas was trying to pour oil on troubled waters while protecting his own position at the same time. He didn’t envy him the task.
As the train moved out of the gare he caught a glimpse of Ananas’ factotum sitting glumly on a pile of luggage. Perhaps they, too, had been hoping to make the connection. If so, they were out of luck.
He settled back to enjoy the rest of the journey, however far it took them. It had been a strange interlude, not without its compensations. Somehow it redressed the balance slightly and made up for all the little indignities he had suffered. He would enjoy relating the tale at the next year’s staff outing.
He was still working it over in his mind – honing the edges as it were – when they reached Carcassonne, looking very benign as it basked in the afternoon sun, the sombre history of the old town buried in shadow. The platform was deserted. In a few months’ time it would be laden with produce from the surrounding countryside.
Soon they were passing through vineyards. Thirty minutes later hills ahead of them heralded Narbonne, and at Narbonne the attendant’s forecast came true. There would be no more trains that day. Passengers would have to make their own arrangements.
As he joined the throng of disgruntled fellow travellers pushing their way along the subway towards the exit, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided it might be a good moment to give his accessories another airing. Perhaps the good people of Narbonne would be more sympathetic to his plight than they had been in Paris. He had happy memories of his last visit when he’d dined at a delightful little restaurant where they played a tape of the Hallelujah Chorus to herald the arrival of the dessert ‘chariot’. He glanced at his watch. The restaurant was due for another test and it might not be too late.
Leaving Pommes Frites in charge of the luggage trolley, he took hold of his white stick, had a quick look round in order to get his bearings, then donned the dark glasses.
Blackness descended, and once again he felt the awful hopelessness being struck blind must engender. Heaven alone knew where the Director had found them. Perhaps Madame Grante had produced them – getting her own back for some of his expense accounts. As he groped his way along the outside of the gare he decided that another time – not that there would ever be another time if he had any say in the matter, but if there were – he would insist on attending some kind of training course first.
Screwing his eyes round he spied the OFFICE DE TOURISME through the side of the frames. It was closed.
On the far side of the forecourt there was a large sign marked TAXIS but the area in front of it was empty. In fact taxis were conspicuous by their absence. They must all have been taken by the fleet of foot and were probably heading for destinations many kilometres away by now.
His heart sank and he was about to give up when he heard a voice. Raising his glasses, he saw a man in a chauffeur’s uniform detach himself from the bonnet of a large, black Mercedes and approach him. ‘Pardon, Monsieur, you are going to the Château Morgue?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘That is what I had hoped to do. It is not easy.’
The man motioned him towards the car. ‘I am here to take you. We had word of the manifestation. Herr Schmuck sends his compliments.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse rapidly revised his view of Narbonne. It was a city he remembered fondly – the birthplace of Charles Trenet, singer of love songs. The way he was feeling, the man’s words could have been set to music – another contender for the hit parade. The Director must have done his stuff. He pointed towards the spot where Pommes Frites was waiting patiently. ‘That is very good news indeed. I have my luggage over there.’
The chaffeur followed him. ‘I had not expected Monsieur would be accompanied,’ he said, eyeing Pommes Frites unenthusiastically. ‘I was not told.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse unhitched the lead. He was not disposed to enter into an argument at this stage. ‘It has all been arranged,’ he said firmly.
The man gave a grunt as he picked up the valise and led the way towards the car. Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed his unexpected benefactor thoughtfully as he followed on behind. His manner wasn’t exactly unfriendly, unforthcoming was perhaps a more accurate description. When he spoke it was with a touch of arrogance, rather as though in the normal course of events he was the one who was used to giving the orders.
A moment later curiosity gave way to something rather stronger. As the man bent down to open the boot, Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed a distinct bulge high up on the left side of his jacket. It could have been a well-filled wallet. On the other hand, instinct told him it was not.
He felt for his own wallet. ‘Do you happen to have change for a two hundred franc note? Two one hundreds, perhaps?’
‘Non.’ There was no question of looking. He consigned the fact to his memory for possible future use. It had been worth a try.
The Mercedes had the kind of luggage compartment, spacious and spotlessly clean, that made his valise look inadequate and shabby, rather as one felt standing in front of a tailor’s mirror being measured for a new suit.
Aware of the odd look the man was giving his white stick, Monsieur Pamplemousse tightened his grip on the handle, adjusted his glasses, and slipped back into his role as he climbed unsteadily into the car. He was pleased to see there was a dividing glass between himself and the driver. With a hundred or more kilometres still to travel, conversation might have flagged a little. As he settled himself down alongside Pommes Frites he felt something hard beneath his right buttock. It was a case containing a pair of sun-glasses, Bausch and Lomb, of the type with photochromic variable density lenses which change according to the light. In the circumstances they were like manna from heaven. By the time the chauffeur had climbed into his seat the change had taken place. If he noticed anything different about his passenger he wasn’t letting on.
There was a faint whirr and the glass panel slid apart. ‘All is for the best, Monsieur?’
‘Oui,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Merci.’ He caught the man’s eyes watching him in the rear-view mirror. He seemed disappointed by the reply, and faintly uneasy, rather as though he had been expecting something more than the bare acknowledgement he’d received. After an uncomfortably long pause, he pressed a button on the dashboard and the panel slid shut again.
As they moved off Monsieur Pamplemousse relaxed and turned his attention to Pommes Frites, or rather to his rear end. Like most dogs, Pommes Frites was a bit of a snob when it came to cars and he was taking full advantage of his new-found status and the fact that the rear window on his side was half open. Eyes closed in ecstasy, he presented a profile to the world in general and in particular to any local inhabitants who happened to be passing, of one to whom such luxury was an everyday event. For the second time that day Monsieur Pamplemousse felt their usual mode of transport was being held up for comparison and found to be distinctly lacking.
As they gathered speed on the autoroute outside Narbonne he could stand the draught no longer and much to Pommes Frites’ disgust, pressed a button on the central console which controlled the electrically operated window.
Perpignan airport flashed by at nearly two hundred k.p.h. The saying was that birds went to Perpignan to die. Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but reflect that if there was any truth in the saying and they carried on driving at their present speed, many would have their wishes granted sooner rather than later.
At Le Boulou they took the D115 and began climbing steadily. He dozed for a while. When he woke it was already growing dark and they were on a minor road. Ahead of them the Pyrénées looked grey and mysterious, outlined against the lighter sky behind, like a child’s painting, simple and stark. Snow on the upper slopes shone luminously in the moonlight.
The car headlights picked out the beginnings of a small village, the houses already tightly shuttered for the night. As they shot through the square he spotted a small bar and beyond the Mairie some more lights. A moment later it was gone.
Almost immediately they were out of the village and he was about to close his eyes again when they rounded a sharp bend and drove past a parking area on the valley side of the road, the sole occupant of which was a long, black hearse-like vehicle. The driver was standing in front of it relieving himself against a rock. Monsieur Pamplemousse had a momentary glimpse of three others dressed in black inside the car. They waved as the chauffeur gave a blast on his horn. Whether or not they had waved in recognition was hard to say, but he had an odd impression that they were waiting for something or someone. Even funeral attendants had to obey the calls of nature, but it seemed an odd time to be abroad.
Monsieur Pamplemousse turned to see if he could spot the name of the village as they passed the sign, but he missed it in the dark. The Mercedes seemed to be totally unperturbed by the steepness of the climb. His 2CV would have been in bottom gear by now and struggling.
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.