Free Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure by Michael Bond Page B

Doctor Furze for a plug. He could hardly blame them.
    The disappearance of the letter was a problem and no mistake. He could hardly blame Pommes Frites, who had doubtless taken his cue from watching his master consume a corner of the envelope. All the same, it wouldn’t be very easy to explain. It would be bad enough in writing, but harder still when it came to the interview which would undoubtedly follow. He could picture the looks he would get and how his simple statement – ‘Pommes Frites ate it’ would be repeated in tones of utter disbelief, followed by stony silence. On the other hand, saying he’d lost it wouldn’t go down too well either.
    For a moment or two he toyed with the idea of ’phoning the Director, but then he dismissed the thought. The Director was obviously as much in the dark as he was. He would get no help from that quarter, and it would only bring closer the moment he was trying to put off. Far better to play things by ear for the time being. Let matters take their course.
    His musings were broken into at that moment by a double click from the outside door, heralding Pommes Frites’ return from his morning stroll. Pommes Frites was good at opening doors. It was a trick he’d learned on a training course when he’d first joined the Paris Police. He was less good at closing them again, although in this instance politeness, or discretion, had obviously won the day.
    A head appeared round the corner of the bathroom door. Its owner was wearing a distinctly thoughtful expression, but by then Monsieur Pamplemousse was much too busy drying himself to notice.
    A leisurely shave and it was time for breakfast. Soon Saucisses Viennoises , that heavenly mixture of pork, veal, filletsteak and coriander, were bubbling away on the stove. He leaned over as one of them rose to the surface, and pricked it with a needle to prevent it bursting.
    While he was waiting for them to finish cooking he cut some slices from a Saucisson de Bourgogne. The slight tang of the kirsch flavouring would act as an excellent appetiser. Instinctively he made a note about the saucisson in his book. It was the correct length – forty-five cm – and had been well dried – in his judgement, six months at the very least. He gave it full marks, as did Pommes Frites from the speed with which it disappeared. The only unsatisfactory aspect was the lack of bread. The smell of freshly-baked bread suddenly wafted into his mind. Back home the second baking at the boulangerie in the rue Marcadet would be just about ready. Nevertheless, given the circumstances, he couldn’t grumble. It had been a more than satisfactory start to the day. Apart from orange juice and coffee, he doubted if even Ananas had fared better.
    Washing-up completed, the emergency bag securely locked and packed away, he wrapped the remaining sausages in his overcoat and stowed them away at the back of the cupboard.
    Since Château Morgue obviously didn’t believe in their patients enjoying the luxury of having locks on their doors – probably in case any of them shut themselves in and lacked the strength to get out again – he hung the OCCUPÉ notice on the outside handle for safety. One couldn’t be too careful.
    Shortly afterwards, holding onto Pommes Frites’ harness with his left hand and grasping the white stick with his right, he set off, tapping his way along the corridor away from the SORTIE DE SECOURS towards what an arrow on the wall referred to as the CENTRE D’ÉTABLISSEMENT THERMAL (TOUTES DIREC TIONS ). They had dilly-dallied long enough. It was time to take the bull by the horns and make their entry into the world of La Cure.
    The signs on the doors of the adjoining building made gloomy reading. Everything from the coccyx to the pharynx seemed to be catered for. There was hardly a part of the body which didn’t have its name written up in large capital letters. LES ECZÉMAS embraced LES ACNÉS , and the two jostled for pride of place alongside LES