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Authors: Michael Bond
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don’t know the French for those things that hold the bits the pedals are attached to … the crank … to the gear wheel that drives the chain.’ She broke off and gave a laugh. ‘It sounds like a song …’
‘I think you mean the
clavettes
,’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Brilliant.’
‘A good many Frenchmen wouldn’t know that either. So what happened?’
‘Suite 22 was having a last go before checking out. It’s on video. All the machines have separate cameras so that the results can be recorded and afterwards you get given a printout. Apparently hewas pedalling away like mad. He’d got up to nearly forty kilometres an hour when both whatever it was you called them snapped at the same time. Wham! Half his teeth are on the floor, the rest are still stuck to the handlebars. They say there’s even one embedded in the camera lens. Talk about Doomsville!’
‘
Sacrebleu!
’
‘The French have a word for it,’ began the girl, then nearly jumped out of her skin as Pommes Frites stirred in the back seat at the sound of his master’s voice.
‘Forgive me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I should have warned you.’ He reached inside his jacket. ‘Are you good at keeping secrets? Between ourselves, I have a small problem. His name is Pommes Frites.’
‘A large one if you ask me.’ Shinko eyed Pommes Frites nervously as he stood up and peered over her shoulder.
‘Take this …’
She held up a hand. ‘It’s very kind of you, but it isn’t necessary. Save it for the room maid. You may need it. Word gets around.’
‘Please,’ insisted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I would be grateful for your help and it will make me much happier.’
With a becoming blush the girl folded the noteand slipped it into a top pocket of her jacket. At the same time she directed him into a parking bay outside one of the apartments.
Leading the way across the patio she opened a sliding glass door, then stood back to allow the others entry. Leaving Pommes Frites to carry out an inspection of his new surroundings while the girl got his luggage from the boot, Monsieur Pamplemousse squeezed past a white table and matching chairs. One thing was certain. He wouldn’t be having
petit déjeuner
outside next morning.
Entering the lounge area of the suite he found himself surrounded on all sides by understated elegance. In front of a long grey leather sofa there was a low table on top of which, alongside a telephone, reposed a bowl of fresh fruit and beside that another, smaller bowl containing chocolates from Bernachon in Lyon. At the other end there was an arrangement of flowers in Japanese minimalist fashion; three out-of-season tulips standing to attention in a thin glass vase.
Opening the door to a cupboard opposite the sofa he found a large television receiver with a separate video recorder, a fax machine with instructions for personalising the dial-in number, and let into the wall, a small safe, again with personal coding facilities.
While he was waiting for Shinko to return withhis baggage he carried out a quick inspection of the rest of the apartment.
The bathroom, situated between the lounge and the bedroom, was an architect’s dream of stainless steel, marble and smoked glass. There were mirrors everywhere, presumably to make you feel good or bad depending on how the fancy took you. Everything had been thought of: hairdryer; supply of tissues; two dressing gowns in his and her sizes; a plentiful supply of oils and soaps by Nina Ricci. Face cloths; a profusion of towels in various sizes, all monogrammed with a large letter D.
And why not? André Dulac had every reason to be proud of his achievement. To have created such an oasis in a normally remote part of France so that people from the world over flocked there all the year round was no mean feat.
He wondered what Doucette would have thought of the glass doors to each of the separate cubicles containing the bidet and the shower. There would be an ‘
Oh là
‘I think you mean the
clavettes
,’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Brilliant.’
‘A good many Frenchmen wouldn’t know that either. So what happened?’
‘Suite 22 was having a last go before checking out. It’s on video. All the machines have separate cameras so that the results can be recorded and afterwards you get given a printout. Apparently hewas pedalling away like mad. He’d got up to nearly forty kilometres an hour when both whatever it was you called them snapped at the same time. Wham! Half his teeth are on the floor, the rest are still stuck to the handlebars. They say there’s even one embedded in the camera lens. Talk about Doomsville!’
‘
Sacrebleu!
’
‘The French have a word for it,’ began the girl, then nearly jumped out of her skin as Pommes Frites stirred in the back seat at the sound of his master’s voice.
‘Forgive me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I should have warned you.’ He reached inside his jacket. ‘Are you good at keeping secrets? Between ourselves, I have a small problem. His name is Pommes Frites.’
‘A large one if you ask me.’ Shinko eyed Pommes Frites nervously as he stood up and peered over her shoulder.
‘Take this …’
She held up a hand. ‘It’s very kind of you, but it isn’t necessary. Save it for the room maid. You may need it. Word gets around.’
‘Please,’ insisted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I would be grateful for your help and it will make me much happier.’
With a becoming blush the girl folded the noteand slipped it into a top pocket of her jacket. At the same time she directed him into a parking bay outside one of the apartments.
Leading the way across the patio she opened a sliding glass door, then stood back to allow the others entry. Leaving Pommes Frites to carry out an inspection of his new surroundings while the girl got his luggage from the boot, Monsieur Pamplemousse squeezed past a white table and matching chairs. One thing was certain. He wouldn’t be having
petit déjeuner
outside next morning.
Entering the lounge area of the suite he found himself surrounded on all sides by understated elegance. In front of a long grey leather sofa there was a low table on top of which, alongside a telephone, reposed a bowl of fresh fruit and beside that another, smaller bowl containing chocolates from Bernachon in Lyon. At the other end there was an arrangement of flowers in Japanese minimalist fashion; three out-of-season tulips standing to attention in a thin glass vase.
Opening the door to a cupboard opposite the sofa he found a large television receiver with a separate video recorder, a fax machine with instructions for personalising the dial-in number, and let into the wall, a small safe, again with personal coding facilities.
While he was waiting for Shinko to return withhis baggage he carried out a quick inspection of the rest of the apartment.
The bathroom, situated between the lounge and the bedroom, was an architect’s dream of stainless steel, marble and smoked glass. There were mirrors everywhere, presumably to make you feel good or bad depending on how the fancy took you. Everything had been thought of: hairdryer; supply of tissues; two dressing gowns in his and her sizes; a plentiful supply of oils and soaps by Nina Ricci. Face cloths; a profusion of towels in various sizes, all monogrammed with a large letter D.
And why not? André Dulac had every reason to be proud of his achievement. To have created such an oasis in a normally remote part of France so that people from the world over flocked there all the year round was no mean feat.
He wondered what Doucette would have thought of the glass doors to each of the separate cubicles containing the bidet and the shower. There would be an ‘
Oh là
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