Free Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure by Michael Bond Page A

see who could eat the most – the winner had eaten over a metre at one sitting. The way he was feeling at that moment, that year’s champion would have been an also-ran, a non-starter.
    Reaching into the bag again, he took out a fork and plunged it into the bubbling pan. The boudin was beyond his wildest expectations; it would have more than upheld a reputation which stretched back into history as far as Homer. Made to the classic formula of fresh pork fat, chopped onion, salt, freshly ground pepper and spices, pig’s blood and cream, it positively melted in the mouth, like a soft ice-cream on a summer’s day.
    Wiping the juice from his hands lest they soil the pages, he reached for his notebook. The panful in front of him had barely scratched the surface of the vast quantity still left on the table. It would be a useful exercise to start a study of the subject. Already he could see another article in the staff magazine. Saucisses et Saucissons – A Comparative Study in Depth by A. Pamplemousse. Perhaps, looking at the pile in front of him, with the words ‘to be continued’ at the end. The editor would be pleased.
    At his feet, Pommes Frites gave a sigh of contentment. Oblivious to the subtle difference between an andouillette with its quota of chitterlings and tripe, and an andouille with its addition of pork meat, he’d had two of each and enjoyed them both. Now he was looking forward to rounding things off witha boudin or two followed by a nap. It had been a long and tiring day; a day of ups and downs, and a good nap wouldn’t come at all amiss.
    It was a thought which appealed to Monsieur Pamplemousse too, and shortly afterwards, having taken the precaution of inflating Pommes Frites’ kennel and placing it in the bathroom lest he get any ideas about sharing the bed, he started to get undressed. Soon, they were both in the land of dreams.

4
T HE C AMERA N EVER L IES
    Monsieur Pamplemousse slept late into the following morning. When he finally woke, it was to the sound of engines revving, the metallic slamming of car doors, dogs barking, and raised voices.
    He sat up and looked at his watch. Ten o’clock! Merde ! Such a thing hadn’t happened in years. Breakfast would have been over and done with hours ago. Then he realised where he was. Breakfast was of academic importance.
    Getting out of bed, he crossed to the window and drew the curtains. In the driveway near the main entrance a Police van was parked alongside the car in which he had arrived. A solitary gendarme occupied the passenger seat, otherwise all was quiet. The view was away from the Pyrénées, southward towards the Massif du Canigou and its sacred mountain. Château Morgue was even higher than he’d expected; above the tree line. The surroundings looked as still and unspoiled as they must have been in the days when the Troubadours roamed the area crying ‘ oc ’ instead of ‘ oui .’
    He opened the door to the corridor and peered out. That, too, was deserted. Outside several of the rooms reposed a tray with a solitary empty glass. The exit door at the far end was ajar, as it must have been all night. He shivered. No wonder it felt cold. Seeing it reminded him that Pommes Frites would probably be wanting to obey the call of nature. Having seen him safely on his way, he turned his attention to the more immediate matter of running a bath. Once again he had cause to bless the man who had designed the survival kit. In a special hole let into the side of the case he found a multi-purpose waste plug. Nothing had been forgotten.
    As he lay back in the bath he contemplated his changed fortunes. It was certainly a case of one law for the rich and another for the less affluent. Gone were all the expensive unguents and lotions of the previous bathroom. The only aids provided for those who wished to cleanse themselves were a small bar of soap bearing the name of one of the giant combines, and a plastic shower cap. Perhaps not many inmates bothered to ask