Free Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation by Michael Bond Page B

up the trains. I’m not sure whether he was joking or not.’
    ‘It is often hard to tell with les Anglais ,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Knowing his taste in wine I should have thought he would prefer them left where they had fallen.’
    ‘Other people seem to lead such active lives,’ persisted Doucette. ‘Yesterday she was grumbling about being away. Apparently this week it is the local fête and she is usually in charge of the duck races. Do you think there is something wrong with me?’
    ‘Of course not, Couscous.’ Monsieur Pamplemoussegave his wife a hug. ‘I’m sure you are just as busy in other ways.’
    Madame Pamplemousse looked relieved. ‘In that case you won’t mind if I go into Antibes and visit the Picasso Museum with her.’
    ‘Of course not.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried not to sound too enthusiastic.
    Last night at dinner Doucette and Madame Pickering had got on like a house on fire (he still found it hard to think of her as Jan) and it would solve the problem of going off on his own. His conscience would be clear.
    The news item on the radio that morning was unsettling to say the least. He glanced at his watch. It was barely nine o’clock; too early to telephone Monsieur Leclercq. Anyway, what was there to say? That the man he was supposed to have met might have been ‘surgically disarticulated’ as the American, Todd, would put it? There was no sense in worrying him unnecessarily.
    ‘Do you think you should take a parapluie ?’ asked Doucette, as he got ready to leave after breakfast on the balcony. ‘I’m sure the hotel will lend you one.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced up at the sky. He shook his head. He had seen the Soleil d’Or’s umbrellas. Enormous steel-framed contraptions. Like the hotel itself, they were a throwback to the thirties; built to last. It would be an added encumbrance. Besides, he would sooner get wet than run the risk of being struck by lightning.
    Nevertheless, having waved goodbye to Doucette, he headed for the reception desk. There were a few more questions he wanted to ask.
    ‘Les Russes?’ The concierge was as noncommittal as the remains of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s investment allowed; giving value for money, but no more, and no less.
    The Russians had taken a suite at the hotel for the month of June to be near their daughter. ‘Come the beginning of July, when the schools break up,’ he gave a shrug.
    ‘Who knows?
    ‘One has to accept the world as it is, Monsieur . Not as one would like it to be.
    ‘One might also argue they are only carrying on a tradition. In the old days the Grand Dukes used to flock to the Riviera to escape the ice and snow of the Russian winters.’
    In other words, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, if you are a hotelkeeper would you turn away such big spenders? If you were a restaurateur and people came in, ordered the most expensive dishes on the menu, drank the best wines, paid in cash – lavishly tipping all and sundry into the bargain, would you turn them away, tell them never to darken your doorway again? Nor, if the truth were told, would it be wise to do so.
    It had been before his time, but in those days Paris had been full of white Russian taxi drivers fleeing from the Bolsheviks, although he would have been willing to bet they hadn’t been made to feel quite so welcome.
    Pommes Frites was ready and waiting, eager for a change of scene. In his opinion there was a limit to the number of times a dog could chase seagulls off a pier without losing face. As soon as his back was turned they appeared again. A walk with his master couldn’t have happened at a better time.
    Passing the row of shops on the way to the school, Monsieur Pamplemousse saw that the blacked-out window he had noticed the previous evening belonged to a delicatessen; now offering a mouth-watering display of charcuterie .
    Unable to resist going inside, he bought a saucisson for Pommes Frites to have with his lunch, along with some freshly-made