Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure Read Online Free Page A

before they set out.
    Almost imperceptibly Monsieur Pamplemousse quickened his pace. One way and another there was a lot to be done and very little time left in which to do it.

2
T HE D OPPELGÄNGER
    With his suitcase stowed away in the compartment at the end of the carriage, his overcoat and white stick on the luggage rack above his head, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed his dark glasses, gathered the little that was left of his breath, and gazed gloomily out of the window of the Morning Capitole as it slid gently out of the deserted quais of the Gare d’Austerlitz and then rapidly gathered speed.
    The day had got off to a bad start. Trouble had set in almost as soon as they left home, a fact which Pommes Frites, already curled up on the floor as he addressed himself to the task of catching up on some lost sleep, would have been only too happy to confirm had he been asked.
    Any fond hopes Monsieur Pamplemousse might have cherished about his ‘condition’ conferring little extra privileges en route had been quickly dashed. The cup containing the milk of human kindness ran dry very early in the day on the Paris Métro, as he discovered when he tried to board an already crowded train at Lamarck-Caulaincourt. The ‘ poufs ’and snorts and cluckings which rose from all sides as he attempted to push his way through to the seats normally reserved for les mutilés de guerre, les femmes enceintes and other deserving travellers in descending order of priority, had to be heard to be believed. In no time at all he found himself back on the platform, glasses askew and suitcase threatening to burst at the seams. Had he not managed to get in some quick and effective jabs with his stick, Pommes Frites might well have suffered a bruised tail – or worse – as the doors slid shut behind them and the train went on its way.
    Seeing him standing there and misinterpreting the reason, amore helpful morning commuter who arrived on the platform just in time to see them alight, came to the rescue and escorted him back to the waiting lift. Monsieur Pamplemousse was too kindly a person to throw this act of friendship back into the face of his unknown benefactor, so he allowed himself to be ushered into the lift, hearing as he did so the arrival and departure of the next train.
    Then, on emerging at the top, he’d collided with an ex-colleague from the Sûreté. The look on the man’s face as he caught Monsieur Pamplemousse in the act of removing his dark glasses in order to get his bearings, plainly mirrored his embarrassment and contempt. The news would be round all the Stations by now; probably even the quai des Orfèvres itself. ‘Old Pamplemousse has really hit rock bottom. He’s trying the “blind man on the Métro ” routine now. Things must be bad. First the Follies and now this. No doubt about it, an oeuf mauvais .’
    The prospect through the window as he took his seat on the Morning Capitole was grey. The Seine, from the few glimpses he managed to catch, looked dark and uninviting. Ahead of them lights from anonymous office blocks twinkled through the mist, beckoning to the trickle of early arrivals hurrying to beat the morning rush.
    Suddenly, as the Seine joined up with the Marne and then disappeared from view, he felt glad to be heading south and away from it all. He was conscious of a warm glow which owed as much to the thought of going somewhere fresh as it did to the unaccustomed flurry of exercise. It was a feeling that was almost immediately enhanced by an announcement over the loudspeakers that breakfast was about to be served. To the devil with the Director and his instructions.
    Giving Pommes Frites a warning nudge, he rose to his feet. If the other passengers on the train felt as he did there would be a rush for tables.
    If only Ananas had not been on the same train; worse still, he occupied the same carriage. That was the unkindest cut of all – really rubbing