Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft by Michael Bond Read Free Book Online Page B

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Monsieur Pamplemousse clasped his pen. Then he made a lightning stab at the object in front of him.
    Alonzo T. Cross, inventor of the world’s first propelling pencil – a forerunner of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s presentweapon – would have been well satisfied with the result, for it was a tribute to the sharpness of his products.
    Not even a banshee, that spirit of Celtic superstition reputed to howl beneath the window of a house where the occupant is about to die, could have surpassed the cry which rent the air as the finely engineered point of the pen made contact with its target.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse woke with a start and found himself lying half on and half off his hotel bed, with Pommes Frites eyeing him dolefully, not to say fearfully, from the other side of the room. He wore an expression, as well he might in the circumstances, of a dog who has just suffered the ultimate betrayal of a love which he had always assumed would last forever. To make matters worse it had happened at the very moment when he’d been in the middle of showing his affection for his master with a morning lick. St. Hubert – the patron saint of bloodhounds – would have been outraged had he been present at the scene.
    As Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at the end of his pen and then at Pommes Frites’ nose, he realised for the first time that the latter bore a distinct resemblance to the
Tuber
menosporum
of his dreams and remorse immediately set in. Pommes Frites’ proboscis, once the pride and joy of the
Sûreté,
follower to the bitter end of many a trail, sometime winner of the Pierre Armand trophy for the best sniffer dog of his year, was not something to be trifled with. Its impairment would be almost as hard to bear for those who in one way or another depended on its proper functioning as it would be for Pommes Frites himself. Reports for
Le Guide
would suffer. Tastings in restaurants across the length and breadth of France would lose their authority.
    As he applied a generous helping of ointment to the end of Pommes Frites’ olfactory organ and then pressed a plaster firmly into place, anger filled Monsieur Pamplemousse’s soul. One look at the expression in his friend’s eyes confirmed in him the need for action no matter what the consequences.
    Replacing the first aid box in the case, he reached for thetray containing the camera equipment, then paused for a moment. It was tempting to take a picture of his patient for use in case there were any arguments later. But that would be unkind; it would be rubbing salt into the wound, and salt was the one culinary item any mention of which was strictly taboo for the time being.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse came to a decision. Enough was enough. In this instance, more than enough. He picked up another, much larger case and placed it on the bed.
    Recognising the signs, Pommes Frites wagged his tail. The possibility of spending any more time in their present surroundings was not something he could enthuse over either. Normally he had great faith in his master’s ability to turn up trumps when it came to finding places to stay, but that too had undergone a severe shaking.
    A few minutes later they drove out of the hotel car-park and joined the queue of traffic already heading for the beach.
    As the sea came into view Pommes Frites put his head out through the open window on the passenger side and sniffed. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Exhaust fumes rather than ozone filled the air; that, and a strong smell of ointment. Neither was pleasant on an empty stomach. The automatic seat belt alongside Monsieur Pamplemousse tightened as they negotiated the roundabout in the centre of the town and Pommes Frites settled back in his seat.
    But if Pommes Frites was looking forward to a gambol on the sands followed by a dip in the ocean, he was disappointed. His master had other priorities. Pulling up alongside a row of telephone
cabines
at the