Read Online Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation by Michael Bond - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Bond
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He might have owned the place.
Further up the hill a pair of imposing wrought-iron gates set beneath a stone archway bore the single word DULAC in gold lettering, marking the entrance to the grounds. As they drew near he heard a warning blast of a siren, and braking sharply, drew into the side of the road. Seconds later an ambulance poked its nose through the opening, gave another wail, then swept past them, heading back down the hill towards the village.
It was once again partly a case of cause and effect, but the brief encounter was sufficient to allow them time to see a sign which they mightotherwise have missed. Poking up out of the snow just inside the gates was a small board bearing a picture of a dog. Pommes Frites eyed it gloomily, not so much because it was an artist’s impression, and in his opinion a very poor one at that – some kind of terrier by the look of it – but because the features were partly obliterated by a large red line.
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s reaction was more of a double take. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was something else Monsieur Leclercq hadn’t taken into account; segregation of the very worst kind, the canine equivalent of apartheid. Worse still, it was probably done as a sop to foreign tourists who objected to seeing animals in the dining room.
CHIENS INTERDIT
indeed! Where else did they expect them to eat? What was the world coming to?
Well, it certainly wasn’t going to stop him staying there. Pommes Frites would have to remain in the car for the time being and be smuggled in through a back door. If there was such a thing as a back door at Dulac.
They drove in silence past a helicopter landing pad, then a sign pointing the way toward a nine-hole golf course. Despite the snow, a small group of hardy Japanese in red Wellington boots were at the first tee practising their putting with a black ball. Monsieur Pamplemousse shivered. It reminded him of Boulogne. From a distance theirmatching red umbrellas with the single letter ‘D’ in blue added a colourful touch to the scene and he was almost tempted to stop and take a photograph. Cartier-Bresson would have clicked his shutter long ago and forgotten all about it, except of course his were always in black and white. Had he ever used colour? He couldn’t recall seeing any.
Otherwise there didn’t appear to be anyone around. Apart from playing golf in the snow, he wondered what people did all day.
Now that he was near enough to take a closer look, he saw that the layout of the hotel was not dissimilar to that of an airport, with corridors radiating out from the central area like the spokes of a cartwheel. Every spoke had attached to it a series of satellite rooms, each with its own patio arranged in such a way that it wasn’t overlooked by its immediate neighbour. In summer the views must be magnificent.
Some of the rooms had a car parked outside, and in addition to the internal corridor all were reached by a small ring road which clearly had the benefit of underground heating, for it was devoid of snow. Perhaps he had misjudged the architect after all, for he seemed to have thought of everything.
Another sign pointed to an underground car park. Across the entrance there was a police car, its doors still open as though the occupants had arrived ina hurry. Monsieur Pamplemousse parked alongside it, so that he was shielded from the main entrance to the hotel. He didn’t want some young commis waiter on baggage duty to discover Pommes Frites before he’d had time to check out the lie of the land. Valet parking could be another hazard.
He needn’t have worried. Luck was with him. As he entered the reception area he found all eyes were on the departure desk where a major row was in progress. Snatches of it reached his ears: more monologue than dialogue since it seemed to be entirely one-sided; a no holds barred assault on the part of a woman of uncertain age and a small group behind the counter. It wasn’t hard to tell
Further up the hill a pair of imposing wrought-iron gates set beneath a stone archway bore the single word DULAC in gold lettering, marking the entrance to the grounds. As they drew near he heard a warning blast of a siren, and braking sharply, drew into the side of the road. Seconds later an ambulance poked its nose through the opening, gave another wail, then swept past them, heading back down the hill towards the village.
It was once again partly a case of cause and effect, but the brief encounter was sufficient to allow them time to see a sign which they mightotherwise have missed. Poking up out of the snow just inside the gates was a small board bearing a picture of a dog. Pommes Frites eyed it gloomily, not so much because it was an artist’s impression, and in his opinion a very poor one at that – some kind of terrier by the look of it – but because the features were partly obliterated by a large red line.
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s reaction was more of a double take. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was something else Monsieur Leclercq hadn’t taken into account; segregation of the very worst kind, the canine equivalent of apartheid. Worse still, it was probably done as a sop to foreign tourists who objected to seeing animals in the dining room.
CHIENS INTERDIT
indeed! Where else did they expect them to eat? What was the world coming to?
Well, it certainly wasn’t going to stop him staying there. Pommes Frites would have to remain in the car for the time being and be smuggled in through a back door. If there was such a thing as a back door at Dulac.
They drove in silence past a helicopter landing pad, then a sign pointing the way toward a nine-hole golf course. Despite the snow, a small group of hardy Japanese in red Wellington boots were at the first tee practising their putting with a black ball. Monsieur Pamplemousse shivered. It reminded him of Boulogne. From a distance theirmatching red umbrellas with the single letter ‘D’ in blue added a colourful touch to the scene and he was almost tempted to stop and take a photograph. Cartier-Bresson would have clicked his shutter long ago and forgotten all about it, except of course his were always in black and white. Had he ever used colour? He couldn’t recall seeing any.
Otherwise there didn’t appear to be anyone around. Apart from playing golf in the snow, he wondered what people did all day.
Now that he was near enough to take a closer look, he saw that the layout of the hotel was not dissimilar to that of an airport, with corridors radiating out from the central area like the spokes of a cartwheel. Every spoke had attached to it a series of satellite rooms, each with its own patio arranged in such a way that it wasn’t overlooked by its immediate neighbour. In summer the views must be magnificent.
Some of the rooms had a car parked outside, and in addition to the internal corridor all were reached by a small ring road which clearly had the benefit of underground heating, for it was devoid of snow. Perhaps he had misjudged the architect after all, for he seemed to have thought of everything.
Another sign pointed to an underground car park. Across the entrance there was a police car, its doors still open as though the occupants had arrived ina hurry. Monsieur Pamplemousse parked alongside it, so that he was shielded from the main entrance to the hotel. He didn’t want some young commis waiter on baggage duty to discover Pommes Frites before he’d had time to check out the lie of the land. Valet parking could be another hazard.
He needn’t have worried. Luck was with him. As he entered the reception area he found all eyes were on the departure desk where a major row was in progress. Snatches of it reached his ears: more monologue than dialogue since it seemed to be entirely one-sided; a no holds barred assault on the part of a woman of uncertain age and a small group behind the counter. It wasn’t hard to tell
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