Free Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation by Michael Bond Page B

door. It said PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB in no less than twenty-four differentlanguages, some of which he could only hazard a wild guess at.
    Operating the roller blinds in the bedroom he sat on the bed for a moment or two contemplating what he might have for his evening meal. To begin with, truffles would definitely be top of the list. It was nearing the end of the season and he might as well make the most of things. A simple omelette to begin with? Or perhaps as a
Julienne
mixed in with the beaten egg, returned to the shell and baked? On the other hand, and to his way of thinking it was still the best method of all, sliced and served on top of coarsely mashed potato coated with olive oil.
    And to follow … he lay back and closed his eyes while he considered the matter. To follow …
     
    When Monsieur Pamplemousse woke it was to the sound of Pommes Frites making one of his snuffling noises. It was the kind he held in reserve for times of emergency and it was coming from the other room. Guided by a flashing red light on the bedside telephone, he felt for the nearest bank of buttons. Having eventually located one for the room light, he operated the shutter. Raising it a little, he saw it was already dark outside. Dark and snowing hard. His heart sank when he looked at his watch. It was long past dinner time. He’d slept for well over six hours. It was no wonder Pommes Frites sounded restive.
    Making his way into the other room, he was met by a pair of reproachful eyes. He set to work quickly. The boots slipped on easily enough and actually stayed in place, almost as though they had been made to measure.
    It wasn’t until he closed the French windows and Pommes Frites had hurried off into the night in search of the nearest tree that Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed an envelope had been slipped under the main door while he’d been asleep; several envelopes, in fact. The slips inside all said the same thing and they were timed at hourly intervals. The first at 18.30, the last 21.30. There was a message for him on the voicemail.
    ‘Pamplemousse …’ Once again the voice was slightly muffled, as though the Director didn’t wish to be overheard. ‘Pamplemousse, I fear the worst. What
is
going on?’ He could have asked the same question. ‘I know you are there. I have checked with reception. Please get in touch as soon as possible, but not, repeat
not
under any circumstances after 22.30. I promised Chantal an early night.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse checked his watch again and hesitated. Should he or should he not? It was already 22.40. Monsieur Leclercq was a stickler for accuracy. If he said not after 22.30 – he meant not after 22.30. But … other matters began to exercise his mind. Fancy missing his dinner onthe very first night! He eyed the remains of the loaf of bread. At least he wouldn’t starve. There was still the bowl of fruit to fall back on, not to mention the chocolate … On the other hand there were two mouths to feed. It would be a case of calling on room service again and without knowing how to get in contact with the girl he would have to wait until Pommes Frites returned so that he could hide him somewhere, although with so much in the way of glass partitioning it was hard to know exactly where. The need to hide a large bloodhound was something the architect hadn’t thought of. Open planning was all very well in its place, but it did have its disadvantages.
    Crossing to the window he looked out. It was black as pitch outside. Not a star to be seen. There was no sign of Pommes Frites either; only two sets of tiny footprints heading out into the night. The snow had eased off a little, and no doubt he would turn up when it suited him. In Paris he often went out for long periods at a time, and having been cooped up all day he was probably taking full advantage of being let out. In the meantime …
    Monsieur Pamplemousse turned on the television again, but he wasn’t in the mood. He felt restless. Having come