jacket pocket.
There was a momentary flash of blue from Jo Jo’s cage as he clung to the side of it in order to launch a sustained attack on something pink attached to the bars. The grinding noise only added to the general clamour.
‘He always goes straight for his iodised nibblewhen he is frightened,’ said Madame Grante accusingly. ‘It comforts him.’
‘Perhaps we should all have one,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, shelving the idea of phoning Doucette for the time being. ‘An industrial-size nibble for three, perhaps?’
‘ Comment allez-vous ?’ Jo Jo reverted to his gruff voice, ‘ Comment allez-vous ?’
Ask me again in an hour’s time , was Monsieur Pamplemousse’s gut reaction, but he kept the thought to himself.
Madame Grante picked up her half-empty glass with one hand and Jo Jo’s cage with the other. ‘I shall leave you in peace,’ she said. ‘I know you have much to discuss.’
‘She’s a funny old thing,’ said Véronique, handing him the glass of wine when they were alone. ‘But she means well and she has a lot on her mind at the moment. Anyway, you looked worried when you arrived, Aristide. Is everything all right?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse told her about his latest loss. ‘First my pen, now my watch … I feel bereft without them.’
‘ Un malheur n’arrive jamais seul ,’ said Véronique.
He gave a shrug. She was right, of course. Misfortunes never seemed to arrive singly.
Véronique seated herself in the chair Madame Grante had vacated. ‘Now, I suppose you are waiting for the third thing to happen.’
‘There would appear to be no shortage ofpossibilities,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily.
He sipped his wine. It was a Riesling. Suitably chilled, clean and perfectly balanced; dry, but with a laid-back fruitiness. It provided instant cheer.
‘Superb!’
‘It is from Weinbach-Faller.’ Véronique acknowledged the compliment. ‘Madame Faller brings a woman’s touch to wine making.’
‘Tell me …’ ignoring the temptation to say Heaven forbid Madame Grante should ever take up wine making; acidic levels would be high, he lowered his voice. ‘If it isn’t a rude question, why is …’
‘… Violaine staying with me? Promise you will keep it a secret.’
‘I wouldn’t dare do otherwise.’
‘It all started with something she read in the horoscope section of le Parisien – Mars clashing with Venus, or whatever – I’m not too up on these things. She came to see me soon after she began receiving threats and she has been here ever since.’
‘Someone has been threatening Madame Grante?’ It was hard to picture.
‘Not directly … but Jo Jo. In her eyes, that is much, much worse.’
‘Jo Jo? What can you possibly threaten a budgerigar with?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Other than cutting off its supply of seeds?’
‘Dipping its millet spray in Prussic acid,’ said Véronique. ‘Spreading glue on the inside of its bell, ready for when he puts his head under it first thing inthe morning. Left there for any length of time it could go rock solid.
‘Stapling his little legs together before dropping him out of the window and counting the seconds before he hits the ground.
‘Bending his beak back on itself with some hot pliers so that when he is let loose he doesn’t know whether he is coming or going.’
‘You are not serious?’
‘Tying a string round his neck and dipping him into a bowl of batter before plunging him into a saucepan full of hot fat …’ continued Véronique. ‘There is no end of things you can do to a budgerigar if you are so inclined and have a fertile imagination.
‘Supposing it were Pommes Frites?’ she added, seeing the look on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face.
‘I wouldn’t like to be the person who tried it on,’ he said grimly.
‘But, just supposing … apart from administering a good peck, budgerigars aren’t like dogs, they don’t have much in the way of defences.’
‘I don’t want to
There was a momentary flash of blue from Jo Jo’s cage as he clung to the side of it in order to launch a sustained attack on something pink attached to the bars. The grinding noise only added to the general clamour.
‘He always goes straight for his iodised nibblewhen he is frightened,’ said Madame Grante accusingly. ‘It comforts him.’
‘Perhaps we should all have one,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, shelving the idea of phoning Doucette for the time being. ‘An industrial-size nibble for three, perhaps?’
‘ Comment allez-vous ?’ Jo Jo reverted to his gruff voice, ‘ Comment allez-vous ?’
Ask me again in an hour’s time , was Monsieur Pamplemousse’s gut reaction, but he kept the thought to himself.
Madame Grante picked up her half-empty glass with one hand and Jo Jo’s cage with the other. ‘I shall leave you in peace,’ she said. ‘I know you have much to discuss.’
‘She’s a funny old thing,’ said Véronique, handing him the glass of wine when they were alone. ‘But she means well and she has a lot on her mind at the moment. Anyway, you looked worried when you arrived, Aristide. Is everything all right?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse told her about his latest loss. ‘First my pen, now my watch … I feel bereft without them.’
‘ Un malheur n’arrive jamais seul ,’ said Véronique.
He gave a shrug. She was right, of course. Misfortunes never seemed to arrive singly.
Véronique seated herself in the chair Madame Grante had vacated. ‘Now, I suppose you are waiting for the third thing to happen.’
‘There would appear to be no shortage ofpossibilities,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily.
He sipped his wine. It was a Riesling. Suitably chilled, clean and perfectly balanced; dry, but with a laid-back fruitiness. It provided instant cheer.
‘Superb!’
‘It is from Weinbach-Faller.’ Véronique acknowledged the compliment. ‘Madame Faller brings a woman’s touch to wine making.’
‘Tell me …’ ignoring the temptation to say Heaven forbid Madame Grante should ever take up wine making; acidic levels would be high, he lowered his voice. ‘If it isn’t a rude question, why is …’
‘… Violaine staying with me? Promise you will keep it a secret.’
‘I wouldn’t dare do otherwise.’
‘It all started with something she read in the horoscope section of le Parisien – Mars clashing with Venus, or whatever – I’m not too up on these things. She came to see me soon after she began receiving threats and she has been here ever since.’
‘Someone has been threatening Madame Grante?’ It was hard to picture.
‘Not directly … but Jo Jo. In her eyes, that is much, much worse.’
‘Jo Jo? What can you possibly threaten a budgerigar with?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Other than cutting off its supply of seeds?’
‘Dipping its millet spray in Prussic acid,’ said Véronique. ‘Spreading glue on the inside of its bell, ready for when he puts his head under it first thing inthe morning. Left there for any length of time it could go rock solid.
‘Stapling his little legs together before dropping him out of the window and counting the seconds before he hits the ground.
‘Bending his beak back on itself with some hot pliers so that when he is let loose he doesn’t know whether he is coming or going.’
‘You are not serious?’
‘Tying a string round his neck and dipping him into a bowl of batter before plunging him into a saucepan full of hot fat …’ continued Véronique. ‘There is no end of things you can do to a budgerigar if you are so inclined and have a fertile imagination.
‘Supposing it were Pommes Frites?’ she added, seeing the look on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face.
‘I wouldn’t like to be the person who tried it on,’ he said grimly.
‘But, just supposing … apart from administering a good peck, budgerigars aren’t like dogs, they don’t have much in the way of defences.’
‘I don’t want to
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