Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (16 page)

First there was the camera equipment to check. On his way back to the bed he closed the bathroom door. For the moment at least, he would rather Pommes Frites didn’t see his kennel.

Opening up the case belonging to
Le
Guide,
he lifted out the tray containing the camera equipment. Removing the Leica R4 body, the standard fifty millimetre Summicron lens and the motor winder, he began to assemble them. The motor winder responded immediately when he tested it. Loading the camera with Ilford XP1 black and white film, he set the programme for shutter priority at a speed of one two hundred and fiftieth of a second, and focused the lens at around ten metres. The combination of a lens aperture of f2 and a film speed of four hundred ASA should be sufficient to cover any eventuality.
If not, Trigaux back at headquarters would have means of pushing the film beyond its normal rating.

Opening up his own case, he looked for the Remote Control Unit. Once again fate seemed to have stepped in to take a hand. It was the first time he had ever had such a thing with him. Luckily he’d taken Rabillier’s advice and included several lengths of extension cable. It would enable him to keep hold of the unit itself and judge to a nicety when to trigger the automatic winder. With a range of anything between one frame every half second and one frame every ten seconds he ought to be able to arrive at a satisfactory optimum rate of exposure.

He would need to reconnoitre the area first and make a rough measurement of the distance along the outside wall of the Tower Block, dividing it by the total number of frames available, to gauge the exposure pattern. Even then it might result in a few blank frames – shots of the wall – but given the total window area he should be all right.

He would probably only have time for one go. There was no sense in pushing his luck, so it would have to be right first time. In the interests of safety, Pommes Frites’ kennel had been made of a bright orange, light-reflecting material and would therefore be plainly visible to anyone who happened to be looking out of the windows. Unless … he had another flash of inspiration. Unless it was covered in something which didn’t reflect the light.

He felt under the bed. Covered with a suitably black, non-reflecting material, it wouldn’t be any problem at all.

Pommes Frites wasn’t normally given to audible expressions of pleasure. He was content to leave such displays of emotion to creatures of a lower order. But anyone who didn’t know him well might have been forgiven had they assumed he was undergoing some strange metamorphosis of a feline and contagious nature as he watched his master undo the parcel. Contagious, because it speedily communicated itself to Monsieur Pamplemousse. Monsieur Pamplemousse was positively purring with delight. Had he been conducting a market survey for a fashion designer who wished to prove that despite all the efforts of his rivals to dictate otherwise, black remained the most popular colour in ladies’
lingerie
, he couldn’t have wished for better or more unimpeachable proof. Perhaps it had to do
with the environment at Château Morgue. Perhaps many of the clients came there not so much for ‘the cure’ as for less laudable reasons. No matter, the plain fact was that he had more than enough material to cover a dozen kennels. Selecting several items which must have belonged to those who had benefited most from nature’s generosity, and rejecting others that would have barely covered the air valve, Monsieur Pamplemousse made a fresh but smaller parcel of the ones that had failed to meet his requirements, and replaced it under the bed.

‘So it
was
you after all!’ At the sound of Mrs. Cosgrove’s voice he jumped to his feet, colouring up like a schoolboy caught hiding something untoward beneath his desk lid. He had been concentrating so hard on the task in hand he’d totally failed to hear her enter the room. She looked deflated, like someone whose last precious illusion had just been shattered.

‘It was true earlier on when I spoke to you on the phone. Now, I am afraid it is no longer so. On the other hand,
après
la
pluie, le beau temps
.’ He picked up the nearest garment and ran it through his fingers, ‘Every cloud has a silver lining. They solve a problem.’ To his relief she seemed to accept this without question. It showed on her face.

‘You managed to get all the things I asked for?’

Mrs. Cosgrove felt inside a carrier bag. ‘I have some of them in here, the chemicals, some plaited nylon line. I got extra strong. It has a breaking point of over five kilogrammes. I hope I did the right thing, but not knowing what you wanted it for …’

Briefly and succinctly, Monsieur Pamplemousse ran through his plan. At the same time he made some quick mental calculations. The camera and the lens together weighed something like nine hundred grammes, the winder another four hundred. Filled with gas, the kennel should provide more than enough lift.

‘The rest of the things are in my room. All except the helium cylinder. That weighs a ton and it will need the two of us. I left it in the hire car.’

‘Which is where?’

‘I parked it out of sight. It’s well off the beaten track. I don’t think anyone will find it unless they come across it by accident.’

‘Excellent. I can’t thank you enough.’ Now that things were starting to happen he felt relaxed. His mood communicated itself to Mrs. Cosgrove.

‘What are you doing for the rest of the day?’

He hesitated. ‘Working.’ It was an understatement. There were measurements to be taken, calculations to be made. He would need to experiment with making some kind of harness to hang beneath the kennel in order to be certain the camera remained horizontal and pointing in the right direction. If the weather stayed as it was there shouldn’t be any problem. If it changed, as it often did in the mountains, suddenly and without warning …

Mrs. Cosgrove followed him into the bathroom. She looked sceptical. ‘Do you think it will ever fly?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a non-committal shrug. ‘They asked the same question of the Montgolfier brothers when they set off from the Champ de Mars in 1783.’ He spoke with more conviction than he actually felt. At least the Montgolfier balloon had been spherical. Aerodynamically, Pommes Frites’ kennel left a lot to be desired; it was hardly in the forefront of design.

‘And this evening?’

‘This evening I shall be even busier.’ He would need to make a few trial runs with Pommes Frites so that he would get used to the idea of having a miniature
dirigeable
attached to his collar. He might not take kindly to the idea. Both that and testing the helium-filled kennel would have to wait until after dark. And it would have to work first time; in all probability he wouldn’t get a second chance.

Aware that Mrs. Cosgrove was looking deflated again, he turned to her. ‘Perhaps,’ he said gently, ‘if you were to help, I might get it all done in half the time. And then …’

‘And then?’ She put down her carrier bag.

‘In France there is a saying: “
On s’abandonne à son
imagination
”, one lets one’s imagination run away with one.’

‘In England,’ said Mrs. Cosgrove firmly, ‘we say that too. We also have one which says: “There is no time like the present”.’

As something soft and silky landed on the bathroom floor there came a sigh of contentment from the other room.
Pommes Frites wasn’t given to boasting or to blowing his own trumpet, but it was nice to know that his efforts at restoring his master’s equilibrium hadn’t been entirely wasted.

It was dark by the time Monsieur Pamplemousse followed Pommes Frites out through his bedroom window.

‘Good luck!’ Mrs. Cosgrove’s voice came through the darkness, muffled by the bulk of the newly-inflated kennel as she struggled to push it after them.

‘
Merci
.’ Privately Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly realised he was going to need it. Or rather, Pommes Frites would need it.

A feeling of guilt came over him as he clipped the end of the line onto the harness and the makeshift balloon rose into the air. Somewhere along the way his calculations must have gone sadly wrong. Perhaps in his ignorance he had grossly underestimated the lifting power of helium. Whatever the reason, he undoubtedly had a problem on his hands.

If only he’d given it a trial run as planned. Instead of which his good intentions had gone for nothing, sacrificed in favour of the more immediate desires of the flesh.

Paying out the line centimetre by centimetre, he watched anxiously as the kennel buffeted to and fro against the side of the building.

Merde
! If the camera broke one of the windows
en route
the game would be up and no mistake.

At his last medical Pommes Frites had weighed in at around fifty kilogrammes, but from the feel of things he was going to need every gramme. The light breeze he’d noticed earlier in the day had freshened and was full of unpredictable upward currents. For a moment or two he toyed with the idea of adding some extra ballast, then dismissed the thought. Getting the weight exactly right would take time, and now that he’d set the wheels in motion speed was of the essence.

That Pommes Frites was beginning to share his master’s anxiety was patently obvious as the end of the line was reached and he began to take the strain. There was a certain lightness to his tread as he set off along the side of the building, a lightness which caused him to gaze skywards more than once as Monsieur Pamplemousse guided him towards his starting
position. Much of the time it was hard to tell what thoughts passed through Pommes Frites’ mind – he could, if he chose, be very poker-faced – but for once it was patently obvious. He looked decidedly apprehensive.

‘
Avancez
!’ Taking advantage of a moment when the moon was temporarily obscured by a cloud, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave him an encouraging pat.

For a full two minutes their luck held. Like a jumbo jet piloted by an inexperienced captain badly in need of a refresher course and using every inch of the runway, Pommes Frites set off, following an unsteady path towards the far end of the building.

Monsieur Pamplemousse held his breath. At least one of his calculations was correct. It was hard to tell from where he was looking, but the camera appeared to be almost exactly in line with the centre of the windows. He triggered off the automatic film advance mechanism with the button on the control unit, then began counting the seconds in double rather than single figures in order to keep an accurate time check. One minute, twelve seconds later they were halfway along the side of the building. He glanced down at the control unit. The luminous display showed the figure 18. He breathed a sigh of relief. It meant his allowance of four seconds between shots had been right too.

It was as they neared the end of the building that things began to go wrong. For some reason the camera looked higher than it had at the beginning, rather too near the top of the windows for his liking. Perhaps it was that the ground sloped upwards? He looked down again and saw to his horror that the worst had happened. Pommes Frites was treading air; his front paws had already left the ground and their opposite numbers at the rear were about to follow suit.

Monsieur Pamplemousse made a frantic dive forward, only to pull himself up in the nick of time as he realised he was tottering on the edge of a rocky precipice. In any case he had left it too late. Carrying the analogy with a jumbo jet to its ultimate conclusion, Pommes Frites had completed his takeoff.

Bereft of navigational lights, silhouetted in the ghostly light from the moon, now re-emerged from behind the cloud, it
would under other circumstances have been an awesome sight. Any local inhabitant witnessing the event while staggering home after an evening out with the boys, might well have been excused had he crossed himself and taken an immediate header off the cliffs into the valley far below. As it was, Monsieur Pamplemousse could only stand helplessly by and watch as his friend and mentor executed a steep turn to starboard and then, gaining height with every passing second, set off slowly and ponderously in the direction of the Pyrénées-Orientales.

It was well after midnight before Monsieur Pamplemousse finally got back to his room.

‘Aristide!’ Mrs. Cosgrove reached out to help him over the sill. ‘Are you all right? You’ve been so long I was beginning to think the worst. How did it all go?’

She felt cold to the touch and he realised she’d probably been waiting by the open window ever since they left. He gave her a quick hug as she drew the curtains. ‘I shall know for certain when we have processed the film.’

‘But what happened?’ They both blinked as she turned on the light. ‘You look as if you’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards.’

He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. It was an apposite description. All it needed was the word ‘tree’ to be substituted for ‘hedge’ to be true.

‘Pommes Frites had an unfortunate accident. Through no fault of his own he became airborne and it was nearly the last we saw of each other. Fortunately I was still holding the control box, so I managed to pull him back safely with the cable. It was, so to speak, his umbilical cord. If that hadn’t held –
alors
…!’ He left the rest to her imagination. It didn’t bear thinking about. Full marks to Leitz for quality workmanship. If the cable had been the product of a lesser manufacturer Heaven alone knew what might have happened.

‘Poor chap.’ Mrs. Cosgrove was rewarded by a grateful wagging of the tail as she bent down to give Pommes Frites a pat. ‘Thank goodness you’re safe.’

‘I’m afraid we lost his kennel in the process. It suffered a puncture when it hit a tree.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse spoke as though the whole thing was an everyday happening, but in reality it had been a terrifying experience, seeing Pommes Frites sail off into the night. He would never have forgiven himself had the worst occurred. Climbing the tree in the dark had been nothing by comparison, although getting his precious cargo down in one piece had been another matter; the memory would probably keep him awake at night for some time to come. In the meantime there was work to be done.

‘Is everything ready?’

‘Just about. I’ve mixed the chemicals and tried to keep the solutions as near thirty-eight degrees as possible. I stood the jugs in a bowl of water and used your portable coffee heater like you said.’

‘Good.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave her another appreciative hug. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

As he rewound the film onto its spool he quickly checked the camera. It had survived its emergency landing with hardly a scratch. The settings were all as he had left them. The film safely back in its spool, he clicked open the back of the camera to remove it. Now for the big moment. It was a long time since he’d last done any processing. To ruin things now through some idiotic mistake would be too galling for words.

In the bathroom with the lights out, feeling his way round in the pitch dark, he was acutely aware of Mrs. Cosgrove’s presence.

The film loaded into its lightproof tank, he reached for the switch. Ten minutes alone in the dark with Mrs. Cosgrove would not be conducive to good dark-room practice. He could also hear Pommes Frites sniffing along the bottom of the door.

‘Do you
have
to go back to Paris tonight?’

He shrugged, trying to concentrate on what he was doing and keep an eye on the time as well. ‘It depends on what’s here. If my suspicions are correct then the answer has to be “yes”. There is a train leaving Carcassonne at four thirty-three in the morning. It gets to Paris in the early afternoon.’

‘I’ll drive you there.’

‘You don’t have to. I can leave the car at the station and make arrangements to have it picked up when I get back to Paris.’

‘Please. I would like to.’

‘In that case I would like it too.’ He couldn’t deny it would be very pleasant. The thought of driving through the night in a strange car while trying to map-read at the same time over perhaps two hundred and fifty kilometres or more of mostly winding mountain roads didn’t exactly fill him full of joy. Pommes Frites would be fast asleep in the back and he wasn’t too sure of his own ability to stay awake.

At exactly twelve seconds before the first five minutes was up he began pouring the developer away, then quickly added the bleach-fix from another jug. Mrs. Cosgrove had done her job well.

After another five minutes he emptied out the second solution and turned on the tap over the basin. Three minutes’ wash in cold water should be sufficient; four to be on the safe side.

‘Will you be back?’

‘It is possible.’ Even as he spoke the words he knew he wouldn’t be. And like the old joke, he knew that she knew that he knew he wouldn’t be. To return would imply all kinds of things from which there might be no turning back.

‘Who knows? It is a small world.’ He turned off the up and began unscrewing the lid of the tank. ‘Did you bring the hair-dryer?’

‘It is in the other room.’ She opened the door and went into the bedroom. Pommes Frites wagged his tail doubtfully.

Monsieur Pamplemousse held the film horizontally between his out-stretched hands, keeping a watchful eye on it in case the dryer came too close. In a matter of moments all traces of wetness had disappeared.

Allowing it to spring back into a rough coil, he held the leader over a piece of white paper on the table beneath the overhead light and began pulling it through his fingers, examining it frame by frame.

The first was half wall, half window. Nothing appeared to be happening behind the latter. The second and third frames were of some kind of lounge area. There were a number of figures, mostly male, sitting or standing around in small groups, all so small as to be unrecognisable without being blown up. It looked as though there was a party in progress.

There was another shot of the tower wall. Pommes Frites must have changed his pace slightly. Momentarily diverted, perhaps, by an interesting scent
en
route,
or an unexpected cross wind.

The next two or three were much more rewarding. Pinsharp and brightly lit, they showed a gymnasium, not dissimilar to the one he’d been in on his first day, full of the kind of equipment one would expect in a place where no expense was spared; parallel bars, rowing machines, weight-reducing vibratory belts, racks of dumb-bells. The sole occupant was an elderly woman in a track suit who was hard at work on a cycling machine; shoulders hunched, head low down until her close-cropped hair almost touched the dial attached to the handlebars. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but without the aid of a light-box or some means of reversing the image it was hard to say exactly what.

Eight and nine were again of the wall. Ten to fourteen were of individual apartments. The main lights must have been out, for they were under-exposed and it was hard to tell what was going on.

Frames fifteen to twenty were again well lit. Clearly they showed a kitchen area; white cupboards lined the walls and in the background there was what appeared to be a row of stainless steel ovens. One picture showed some out-of-focus scales in close-up – they must have been standing by the window; another, a row of bowls clearly containing flour. Nearby was a pile of
saucissons.
Number nineteen showed Furze, for once minus his clip-board. He was standing in front of a second set of scales peering at a dial. From number twenty on the film was meaningless, recording for posterity Pommes Frites’ journey into space. They might well yield some interesting enlargements, unique in their way, but for the moment Monsieur Pamplemousse had seen enough.

‘The answer to your earlier question is “yes”. I must catch the first train to Paris.’

‘What time do you want to leave?’

‘As soon as possible.’ He suddenly wanted to get away from Château Morgue. Sensing her disappointment, he tried to console her. ‘Look, I don’t want to leave. I
have
to leave.’

It was hard to believe that his expedition with Pommes
Frites had gone entirely unnoticed, and if they had been seen word would undoubtedly filter back. There was no time to lose. ‘But first there are things I must do.’

‘Can I help?’

He took her arm. ‘I will pack my belongings and then you can help by taking them to the car. Pommes Frites and I will join you there. When we leave we must do it quietly and quickly.’

Mrs. Cosgrove looked at him thoughtfully. Almost as if she was seeing him for the first time.

‘Are you angry about something?’

‘Angry?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the remark. Yes, he was angry. He always felt angry when he came across an injustice being done, especially when it involved the very young or those who were too old or too tired to defend themselves. In his days with the Sûreté it had been both a strength and a weakness, but he was glad his feelings had never been blunted. He attempted with difficulty to put it into words.

Mrs. Cosgrove looked relieved as she listened to him. ‘I thought perhaps it was something I’d said.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse took hold of her hand. It felt instantly responsive and yet at the same time it was that of a stranger, making him aware that despite everything they hardly knew each other.

‘I don’t think that would be possible.’ He allowed a suitable length of time to elapse before returning to business. ‘There is one other thing you can do.’

‘Tell me.’

‘When Pommes Frites and I leave I want you to go along the corridor to the right. Round the first corner you will find a fire alarm. At the exact time I give you I want you to break the glass. It will clear the building of unwanted people and it will give you an opportunity to leave with the luggage.’

‘No questions?’

‘No questions.’ The fact of the matter was he didn’t as yet have a clear picture of what he intended to do, only the vague outline. He would play it by ear. Events would shape themselves.

Carcassonne station was unrelievedly gloomy and deserted when they arrived. A few faces stared at them uninterestedly through the windows of the waiting train.

Apart from one wrong turning crossing the Massif du Canigou, the drive had been uneventful, but the short cut through Molitg-les-Bains via the D84 had been a disaster, adding perhaps an hour to the journey. In cutting one large corner off the map they had added countless smaller ones, with the result that instead of having plenty of time to spare there was a bare ten minutes before the train was due to leave for Toulouse. Perhaps it was just as well. He didn’t like prolonged goodbyes.

‘You will have a long journey back.’

‘That’s all right. I don’t mind the early mornings – once I’m up.’ Mrs. Cosgrove glanced skywards. ‘I shall see the sun rise. I might stop on the way and watch it.’

It was true. There wasn’t a cloud in sight. It was the time of day he liked best and he almost envied her the drive across the mountains. There would be all manner of wildlife at the side of the road, looking startled as they were caught in the headlights, or shooting off in a panic. And peasants out with guns. They, too, would look affronted by the intrusion of their privacy.

He wondered what was happening back at Château Morgue. Soon after they left a fire engine passed them on its way up, followed by an ambulance and several police cars. He’d caught sight of Inspector Chambard in one of them. It looked as though they were going prepared for some kind of siege. A little later there had been another fire engine, this time with a turret ladder so large the driver was having difficulty negotiating some of the bends. They would need it if they wanted to enter the Tower Block. By the time he’d finished with the lift it would take a skilled electrician several hours to get it going again. The occupants of the Tower Block were well and truly trapped. The only other way down he’d managed to find was an emergency staircase which came out into the underground garage. He’d rendered that equally
hors
de
combat.
Sophisticated locks serve a very useful purpose if you want to keep people from making an unauthorised entry, but given a little knowledge they can be made equally effective in keeping others imprisoned.

‘I expect your wife will be pleased to see you.’

He gave a start. It was the first time she had spoken of Doucette. ‘How did you know?’

‘You don’t have to be a detective. You seem very well looked after. Sort of complete. Everything nicely ironed and no loose buttons.’

‘Anyway, it won’t be long before you see George again.’ It was the first time he’d spoken his name out loud too. He hesitated, unsure of how to say what he wanted to say.

‘I’m sorry it had to end like this. I’m sure he’ll make up for it.’ George would be raring to go. Deprived of his ‘
verts
’ for so long there would be no holding him.

Mrs. Cosgrove gave a wry smile. ‘I should be so lucky. Poor old George. He isn’t a bit like that really. Never has been. To tell you the truth, he likes dressing up best.’ The words came out in a rush, as if she wanted to get them over and done with.

‘Dressing up?’

‘You know, women’s clothing and all that sort of thing. He’s got a better wardrobe than I have. Can’t help it, poor dear – especially when there’s a full moon. That’s why I’m here. He had a bit of bad luck in Knightsbridge a few months ago – near the barracks. His case comes up tomorrow and he didn’t want to embarrass me.’

‘A few
months.
That’s a long time to wait.’

‘Three and a half to be exact. He elected to go for trial by jury. That delayed things a bit.’

‘I trust he has a good lawyer?’

‘The best. An old friend.’ It was her turn to hesitate. ‘I haven’t … you know … for quite a few years now. Well, fifteen actually.’

‘Fifteen years!’

For some reason a quotation from Tolstoy flashed through his mind. ‘Man survives earthquakes, epidemics, the horrors of war, and all the agonies of the soul, but the tragedy that has always tormented him, and always will, is the tragedy of the bedroom.’ He thought of all the ‘Georges’ he’d arrested in his time, for no better reason than that they were dressed unconventionally as members of the opposite sex. He suddenly felt very sorry for George, that grey figure in the photograph. To be married to Mrs. Cosgrove, and yet …
Mon
Dieu
!
Such waste! And what of her? He wondered if she had always gone in for exotic underwear – just in case. Perhaps she made do with George’s cast-offs.