Free Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot by Michael Bond Page A

advice.’
    ‘I am about to phone his vétérinaire in Paris. It may take time.’
    ‘Time is not on our side, Pamplemousse.’ The Director sounded agitated again. ‘A “certain person” has been on to me already this morning demanding news of progress. I can hardly repeat what you have just told me. I understand the workings of your mind, Aristide. I respect them. I know that threads have to be picked up and examined and pondered on before you weave them together into some sort of pattern, however bizarre and convoluted. I know that ordinarily this takes time, but I hesitate to pass on the news that the boilers and generators of France depend for their life’s blood on a pair of doudounes, however large and desirable they may be.’
    ‘ Oui , Monsieur .’
    ‘Were they …’ The voice hesitated. ‘Were they very exceptional, Aristide? Clearly, they made a deep impression on you.’
    ‘ Formidable, Monsieur. Extraordinaire . I will describe the situation and the events leading up to it more fully when I make my report.’
    ‘Good. I shall look forward to that moment. We will go through it over a bottle of champagne. Some of your favourite Gosset.’ The Director sounded in a better mood. ‘Now, I will leave you to your telephoning. Command the vétérinaire to fly down to Geneva if necessary. We will arrange for a car to meet him. Tell him it is a matter of supreme national importance. Oil is a valuable commodity. I need hardly stress the fact that other powers are interested. Powers, Aristide, whose climate is such that their needs during the winter months are even greater than our own. Pommes Frites must be restored to the peak of condition as quickly as possible. I have a high regard for his abilities and they must not be impaired.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse murmured his goodbyes and then with a sigh replaced the receiver. He bent down to pat the wheelbarrow’s occupant on the stomach. Almost immediately there was a distant rumble; a warning of worse things to come.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily drew the curtains and flung open a window. At least one of Pommes Frites’ abilities remained unimpaired; in fact, enhanced was more the word. If he stayed where he was storm-cones would need to be hoisted over the barrow; the air-conditioning would be tested to its limits.
    He stood for a moment breathing in the fresh autumn air. The distant sound of a ship’s siren announced the presence of a paddle-steamer making its morning round of the lake. Waiters in jeans and sweatshirts were busy on the nearby terrace, laying the tables for lunch – holding wine-glasses above a jug of steaming water before giving them a final polish. Laughing and joking amongst themselves, they looked very different to the slightly aloof figures who had attended him the night before. One of them was busy raking a patch of earth where a mark had been left by thewheelbarrow. He waved as he caught sight of Monsieur Pamplemousse.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse returned the wave automatically, his mind suddenly on other things. How, for example, had the Director got to hear about the episode with the wheelbarrow quite so speedily? Someone must have been very quick off the mark in complaining. Someone high up in government, perhaps? Either that, or there was some other source of communication. Whichever it was, it left him feeling irritated.
    He turned away from the window and contemplated Pommes Frites for a moment. It was not an inspiring sight. Had they been with him at that moment the powers that be in Paris would have had their confidence in the future well-being of France severely shaken.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the telephone and his notebook. There were times when he felt as if he spent half his life on the phone. It was one of the penalties of working in the field. This morning was no exception. He still had all the numbers he’d found on Jean-Claude’s pad to go through. In the old days, back at the Sûreté, it would have been