Free Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot by Michael Bond Page B

delegated to a subordinate.
    His friend Durelle, the vétérinaire , greeted his request with a certain amount of derision.
    ‘Drop everything? Do you realise, in my waiting-room this morning I have seven dogs, three cats, a parrot, a tortoise, and an old woman with a budgerigar. The budgerigar is eleven years old and will live for another five or six years at least. The old woman merely needs someone to talk to other than a creature who can only say Bonjour, Bonne nuit and Ooh, la, la ! She comes here every week.’
    ‘It is a matter of national importance.’
    ‘Are you pulling my leg?’
    He didn’t blame Durelle for asking. Over the years they had played a series of long-running practical jokes on each other. Childish pranks which had seemed enormous fun at the time, but which didn’t always stand retelling. Like puns, they were things of the moment. There was the time when, having heard that Durelle had ordered a new suit, he had persuaded the tailor to parcel up an old sack whichhe’d found lying in a street, one used to divert the flow of water in one of the gutters of Montmartre until it became too old even for that. It had stunk to high heaven. Durelle had passed no comment at the time, but he’d got his own back by giving it to him as a present the following Christmas. It had gone to and fro for several years until Doucette had put her foot down.
    ‘No, I am perfectly serious. You can check with the office. I am staying at Les Cinq Parfaits, by Lac Léman …’
    ‘Lucky devil! I wish I could join you. We could do a spot of fishing together.’
    ‘The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, slightly aggrieved. ‘The way things are going I shan’t have much time for fishing.’
    ‘Has he been overeating again? I seem to remember it happening once before. That time when you were both in Normandy. Apples stuffed with quail and baked in pastry, was it not? Afterwards Pommes Frites was given the cream bowl to lick and suffered accordingly. It took him several days to recover.’
    ‘ Chiens are interdits in the dining-room at Les Cinq Parfaits,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘Besides, he appears to have lost his appetite completely. He turned up his nose at a biscuit I offered him, one of his favourites which I keep for special occasions. It is always a bad sign.’
    ‘Has he been taking the local water?’
    ‘We are staying near Evian.’
    ‘Ah, then we must look elsewhere. Are his eyes at all bloodshot?’
    ‘Pommes Frites’ eyes are often bloodshot,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse reprovingly. ‘He is, after all, a Bloodhound.’
    ‘Yes, of course.’ Durelle sounded distracted. In the background there was the noise of a dog barking. ‘And his nose? Is it dry?’
    ‘It is hard to say. It has recently been greased. I gave it a liberal coating of Vaseline before we left Paris. Enough to last the holiday.’
    ‘Temperature?’
    ‘Again, it is hard to say. He felt very cold to the touch last night, but he’d been lying out in a wood …’
    ‘ Un moment .’There was a pause followed by a heavy clunk as the receiver at the other end was laid down. There were now several dogs barking. It sounded like a fight. He heard a muttered oath, then a door slammed. When Durelle picked up the phone again he was breathing heavily and his words were interspersed with loud sucking noises as though he had been wounded.
    ‘It is a bad morning. I’m truly sorry I cannot be with you.’ The remark was made with feeling. ‘I assume you have contacted a local vet?’
    ‘They are not enthusiastic,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, I need someone I can trust.’
    ‘In that case I can only suggest you send me a specimen of his water for analysis.’
    ‘Pommes Frites’ water?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated the words dubiously.
    ‘A few millilitres will be sufficient. If you put it on the afternoon train I will get my secretary to arrange for