Free Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation by Michael Bond Page A

alarming rate, seasonal joys were fast becoming a thing of the past.
    The Movie Channel was showing a film he had seen with Doucette at least ten years ago. Amagazine programme was full of people airing their views about nothing of any great importance; more for their own enjoyment than anyone else’s. It was no wonder the Americans, always good for the apt phrase, called it surfing. Skimming the surface in the hope of finding something worthwhile in the murky waters. It was one area where more definitely wasn’t better.
    He had more luck with the refrigerator. Champagne bearing the name Dulac, a plain and a rosé; red and white wine in quarter litre bottles. All the usual miniatures of spirits. Several cans of Heineken and Carlsberg beer. Three varieties of water including one from the Monts des Vosges; Wattwiller.
Rare et Bienfaisante.
He jotted down the name. It was a useful way of gaining the ascendancy if you encountered a wine waiter who needed taking down a cru or two. An assortment of nuts and other comestibles.
    He was about to pour himself a beer when there was a knock on the outer door leading to the corridor. He opened it and Shinko entered pushing a serving trolley.
    ‘Sorry I’ve been so long. The kitchen’s busy what with everyone being inside because of the snow. I had to organise it myself.’ She lifted a silver dome ‘… One large
entrecôte
steak,
saignant,
for Pommes Frites …’ then pointed to another platebearing an oblong loaf of brown bread standing on end. It was of the style sold by the English firm Marks & Spencer in their Paris establishment and currently much in favour. What they called a ‘tin’ loaf in the quaint way the English had of describing things.
    ‘Hey presto!’ Removing the top crust she revealed that the inside had been removed so that it formed a hollow shell in which to contain the crustless sandwiches. ‘Brilliant! I asked for an assortment.’
    It was the kind of touch that separated the men from the boys; the three Stock Pot establishments from the mere two. Even when the pressures were on nothing was too much trouble.
    ‘
And
…’ Having spread a white napkin on the floor, Shinko returned to the trolley, opened a cupboard door in the base and took out two pairs of tiny Wellington boots. ‘I’ve brought these for “a certain person”. I dare say he’ll want to go out after he’s finished his snack.’
    Clearly Pommes Frites had lost no time establishing a bond. Who was it said the English weren’t a nation of pet lovers? All the same, Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed them dubiously. He strongly suspected the so-called ‘certain person’ might have his own views on the matter, but as if to give lie to the thought, while the girl was quicklyand expertly cutting his steak into bite-size pieces, Pommes Frites gave the boots an approving sniff.
    ‘Better safe than sorry,’ said Shinko, transferring the plate to the napkin. ‘Anyway, there are no children staying here at the moment so “Cloaks” won’t miss them.
Bonne chance.
’
    Once again she gave a nervous giggle and disappeared before Monsieur Pamplemousse had a chance to thank her, by which time Pommes Frites was already deeply into his steak.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t even bother trying to compete. Instead, he began working his way slowly through the sandwiches. He counted seven layers in all; neatly cut into quarter segments and containing in turn,
pâté
, smoked salmon, cream cheese with thinly sliced pickled gherkin,
écrevisse
lettuce and mayonnaise, ham, scrambled egg with tiny slivers of truffle …
    Entering the list into his notebook reminded him in no uncertain terms once again of the burns on his fingertips. Holding the ice-cold cans of Carlsberg helped, but it would be a day or two before they returned to normal.
    Ringing through to reception he left a message telling them he didn’t want to be disturbed until further notice. To make doubly certain he hung the room card outside the