Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates by Michael Bond

Author:Michael Bond [Michael Bond]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780749018818
Publisher: Allison & Busby
Published: 2015-08-15T04:00:00+00:00

6

THE TOMBSTONE TRAIL

Unfurling a snow-white napkin, Monsieur Pamplemousse used it to give his moustache an anticipatory dab before tucking it in behind his shirt collar. Uttering a sigh of contentment, he settled back and took in his surroundings. Although it was barely twelve thirty, the main dining area of the restaurant was already crowded and the stools lined up in front of the bar were all taken. He was lucky to have got one of the small tables situated in the window.

He ordered a Kir Sancerre blanc from the waiter who had shown him to his seat and it arrived a few moments later along with a small dish of biscuits and nuts.

The pace was hotting up. Somewhere in the background he could hear the familiar sound of a kitchen hand chopping baguettes with a guillotine. Monsieur, presiding over the bar, was busily pouring apéritifs in between shaking hands with old friends and filling pichets and demi-pichets with vin rouge, vin blanc and vin rosé ordered from a list, unclassified and unidentified as to year, chalked on a blackboard above the counter; wines which aspired to no greater heights than that of accompanying and washing down good, wholesome food. Than which, in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s opinion, there could be few better aims in life; an outlook which was endorsed without question by Pommes Frites, noisily smacking his lips as he settled himself down at his master’s feet and listened to the clink of knives and forks hard at work on all sides. He, too, had a look of anticipation on his face.

Madame was busy writing down the lunch-time orders on a pad, whilst at the same time keeping a weather-eye on all that was happening around her. Other than an opening smile of welcome and a ‘Bon appétit’ when the order had been brought, communication between the patronne and her guests was minimal. Brownie points were lost if you didn’t know what you wanted by the time she arrived. Dithering caused raised eyebrows. Last-minute changes of mind gave rise to barely suppressed sighs of irritation. Time was of the essence. Her wave as she caught sight of Monsieur Pamplemousse was the equivalent of a Presidential honour.

By Le Guide standards there was nothing particularly special about Les Tourelles in the Rue Bosquet. The scene was probably being duplicated at that very moment in similar restaurants all over France. Waiters hurrying to and fro in their black waistcoats and white aprons, shirt sleeves rolled up in businesslike fashion to just below the elbows. The paper table-cloths laid over starched white linen. Brown panelled walls with unframed copies of turn-of-the-century posters stuck up on them. The long banquette covered in dark red velvet against one wall; the tables in front of it packed so close together in order to make maximum use of the available space that there was barely room for latecomers to squeeze between them; the waist-high divisions which turned the centre of the room into a group of islands surrounded by bulging coat stands.

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