Free Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives by Michael Bond Page B

the two had got together. If it had been Eta it certainly backfired. When the election took place there was an overwhelming vote against anyone associated with them.
    By the same token, it had made his own government think again. Following the Spanish affair, unease had spread like wildfire through Europe’s train-travelling public. And who could blame them? People with backpacks had become objects of suspicion.
    He was about to enlarge on his theme when he felt a vibration in his trouser pocket. He took out his mobile. It was Monsieur Leclercq.
    Edging further away from Mrs Beardmore, he pressed the earpiece hard against his head and cupped the other hand over the mouthpiece in case the Director was in a booming mode, but he needn’t have worried.
    ‘I was wondering if you are in an “ Estragon ” situation, Aristide,’ hissed the voice at the other end.
    ‘I am not in a position to answer the question,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse carefully.
    ‘Why is your voice all muffled, Pamplemousse?’ Monsieur Leclercq’s voice rose by several decibels. ‘I trust you are not under the bedclothes with Mrs Beardmore already – a victim of what I believe is known as a “date-rape” drug!’
    ‘No,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Rest assured, I am not. I will be with you as soon as I can.’
    Surreptitiously pressing the off button, he added a few non sequiturs for good measure, before slipping the handset back into his pocket.
    ‘Bad news?’ asked Claye.
    ‘I’m afraid I shall have to leave you.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to keep the note of relief from his voice. He wasn’t sure if he had entirely succeeded, but Mrs Beardmore was already on her feet.
    ‘We’ll catch up,’ she said. ‘We’ve made contact, that’s the great thing. In the meantime your pooch had better have something for the journey.’ Reaching for her plate, she placed it on the floor within licking distance.
    Pommes Frites, who had been wearing his thoughtful expression following his return from the bedroom, jumped to his feet.
    ‘You need a comfort break before you go?’ asked Claye, addressing Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The bathroom’s on through. Help yourself.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t feel the need, but he couldn’t resist the chance to see around the rest of the suite while he was there.
    As with the main room, the bedroom curtains were drawn – Claye must value her privacy. Alongside a king-size bed there was a Samsung Media Centre, with a mirror doubling as a television screen, and below that a mini bar. Her night-clothes – a rather surprising set of neatly folded striped pyjamas – were already laid out, a small pile of cellophane-wrapped sweets neatly arranged on top.
    A quick glance behind a partially open slidingcupboard door revealed several sizeable items of luggage. He tried lifting one of the bags. It weighed a tonne. There was no doubt, when Americans travelled they took everything with them bar the kitchen sink.
    The en-suite marble bathroom had a full compliment of mirrors, hairdryers and the usual selection of freebie offerings along with two cordless telephones.
    Claye must have brought along her own medicine chest. Walnut, with piano hinges, bearing the insignia Robern of Pennsylvania, it was standing on a table between two wash basins. Getting it out of the country couldn’t have been easy; getting it back in again might be another matter. He guessed all things were possible if you were a CIA agent. It opened doors. Inside the chest it looked as though there were enough bottles and surgical instruments to deal with everything from a common cold to major surgery. At one point, taking his time while drying his hands, he thought he heard Pommes Frites coughing, but after a moment or two it stopped.
    ‘You want the bad news first,’ said Claye, when he got back into the room, ‘or the red alert?’
    ‘Tell me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, fearing the worst.
    ‘The bad news is your pooch has