Free Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation by Michael Bond

for a posting to Brittany where there is more weather than they would know what to do with.
    ‘It is like being an airline pilot. After sitting in their seat for hours on end twiddling their thumbs while they are crossing the Atlantic, the moment of truth comes when they begin the final approach. A bumpy landing and they are cast in gloom for the rest of the day, a smooth one and they are walking on air.’
    ‘If they were able to do that,’ said Doucette, ‘it would mean something had gone very wrong with their calculations.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse pretended he hadn’t heard. ‘If you ask me, he is hedging his bets.’
    ‘Was, you mean,’ said Doucette. ‘I think he has finished. Now we shall never know.’
    ‘Ssh! Un moment .’ Monsieur Pamplemousse held a finger to his lips and was just in time to catch the sting in the tail.
    ‘Beware! The signs are misleading. Remember the old saying: “Soleil rouge du matin faire trembler le marin?”’ For the benefit of any Anglo-Saxon holiday-makers who happened to be listening the announcer lapsed into broken English: ‘Red sky in ze morning – shephardy’s warning.’
    ‘What did I tell you?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Shephardy’s warning!’
    Operating the shutters, he unfastened the balcony door and felt a draught of warm air as it swung open. ‘My grandmother used to say much the same thing whenever we had a long spell of hot weather: “It is too good to be true. Mark my words. We shall pay for it!”.’
    Outside the air did indeed feel heavy and overcast. The sky was covered by a mixture of grey and white cloud. Lacking any blue to reflect, the sea had an ominous, almost sullen look to it. So much for the inevitability of seeing the sunrise.
    A solitary water-skier was making for harbour further along the coast. Nearer to the shore seagulls crowded together on the small pier, pecking furiously at anything they could find. The hotel was also hedging its bets. The man who was normally out early raking the sand was nowhere to be seen. Mattresses remained piled up alongside the parasols, while half the luncheon tables remained bare as staff gloomily awaited a decision from on high. Apart from the forecaster, bad weather was not a matter up for discussion on the Riviera; particularly where hôtelièrs were concerned.
    ‘Aristide … come quickly …’ At the sound of his wife’s voice, Monsieur Pamplemousse rushed back into the room.
    It was a female news reader this time: ‘… the Nice Police are investigating the possibility that the dismembered body of a man found floating in the water off Cap d’Antibes on Tuesday evening may be the remains of a well-known Nice antique dealer whohas been missing from his home since Tuesday. The cause of death has still to be established. We hope to have more details in our eleven o’clock bulletin.
    ‘The Pope is continuing his tour of Basutoland with a visit to the cath …’
    Madame Pamplemousse pressed the off button. ‘How awful!’ she exclaimed. ‘That was the day we arrived. Aristide … you don’t think …’
    ‘If it is,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘then Monsieur Leclercq’s painting may well be at the bottom of the sea.’ He was tempted to add ‘or else hanging on someone’s apartment wall,’ but it felt too reminiscent of their previous evening’s conversation for comfort.
    ‘After we have had our petit déjeuner I think I may go along to the school,’ he said instead.
    ‘Must you, Aristide?’ sighed Doucette, knowing the answer full well.
    ‘It is just possible the man arrived early and arranged for the painting to be picked up.’
    ‘And left no message? It hardly seems likely.’
    ‘At least I shall have explored every avenue,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Our consciences will be clear.’ Opening Le Guide ’s issue case, he removed the Leica R4 camera, dithered for a moment or two over the choice of film, and finally decided to load up with a spool of Ilford HP4.