Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot by Michael Bond Read Free Book Online

to the living-room and switched on the quartz-halogen lamp on the desk. A larger version of the bedroom lamp, the low voltage bulb produced a brilliant white light. He picked up the blotting pad and held it under the lamp. Jean-Claude was a doodler on the phone. It was covered with black, geometrical shapes, ranging in complexity from mere squares and triangles to complex, ornate patterns – probably depending on the length of the call. Interspersed with the patterns were telephone numbers. He checked with the handset. They were mostly Jean-Claude’s own number, but here and there were others. Taking out his notepad, he jotted these down for future reference.
    He turned the blotting pad over. Someone – an executive working for Burns, the big American agency – had once told him that the first thing he did when he was left alone in an office belonging to anyone of importance was to look beneath the blotting pad. In a security-conscious age, when more and more code-numbers had to be committed to memory, people sought refuge by inscribing them on the back of their blotting pads. His friend had built up quite a dossier of useful numbers.
    There was nothing on the back of Jean-Claude’s blotting pad.
    He drew a blank with the drawers on his right. The large drawer with its suspended files on the left took a little longer, but was equally unproductive.
    He riffled through the books on the shelf above the desk. Nothing fell out.
    Just as he was about to give up, he leant on the blotting pad, smoothing the rough paper thoughtfully with his fingers as he tried to make up his mind what to do next. It felt thicker than he would have expected. Towards the middle there were distinct ridges. He lifted the top sheet. Underneath it was a glossy black and white enprint of a blonde girl. It was the product of a fashion-conscious studio; all high-key lighting and with the softness of thesubject burnt out. It made her look old beyond her years, but perhaps that was what she had wanted. She looked vaguely familiar and he wondered if he had seen her on television. The picture was unsigned; the back was stamped with the name of a studio in Geneva.
    Underneath the photograph there was a thin manila envelope. It was unsealed and to his surprise, when he held it up and shook the contents on to the desk, a selection of words fluttered down. They were of differing type-sizes and faces, each separately stuck to a sheet of dark backing paper. He laid them out in no particular order. They were in English and judging by the texture of the paper had been cut from a journal of some kind. Strangely, at least two of the words were misspelt – unless his command of the English language, which wasn’t good, was even weaker than he’d thought.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse sat staring at the words for some time, shifting them around, trying to make some kind of sense. Then he stood up and tucked them back in the envelope along with the photograph. It was a task better carried out in his own room.
    A few moments later he let himself out quietly through the front door. Cloud from the distant mountains had descended while he’d been at work and it was already dark. Concealed coloured lights made patches of shrubs and flowers stand out like tropical islands. The pool was deserted again. From the car-park he could hear voices and the sound of engines being revved. Doors slammed. He looked in through the dining-room windows, wondering if he should confer with Albert Parfait, but the patron was nowhere in sight. He decided against searching him out. It could wait for the time being.
    He hesitated for a moment or two, wondering whether to take his things back to his room or look for Pommes Frites first. In view of his previous experience with the silent dog-whistle he decided not to risk using it again. All hell might break loose.
    The wood behind the hotel was even darker than he’d anticipated and he began to wish he’d fetched a torch from his car. The paved path