thighs. Why was it they always seemed to be going uphill rather than down? It looked very painful and unpleasurable, although he had done exactly the same thing whenheâd been their age. There was hardly a hill in the Auvergne he hadnât tackled in his youth, and he must have enjoyed it at the time.
Having got well and truly stuck behind a laborious sand-carrying camion. Monsieur Pamplemousse took the opportunity to run through in his mind the reasons for making the journey at all. It was really little more than the following up of a hunch; a feeling he couldnât have put into words. But that was how it was; how it had always been. How many times in the past had he not set off on a journey with as little to go on? That was what it was all about. You started with a problem. Then you took all the available facts and you placed them in some kind of order. Perhaps, if the worst came to the worst you put them all into a hat and gave them a good shake. Then you played a hunch.
Holmes would have done the same. Except, of course, he would have carried it through with total conviction and from the comfort of his lodging house. He tried to picture what Holmes might have told Watson before despatching him up the mountainside in a pony and trap.
First, there was the fact that Jean-Claudeâs disappearance had not been premeditated, of that he was sure. Had it been, he would have taken more with him. All his toiletries seemed to be intact. There was no marked absence of clothes or suitcases.
Secondly, he was well-known in the area. If he had caught a train or an autobus anywhere someone would have seen him, assuming Albert Parfait was telling the truth â and apart from a disquieting feeling that for some reason best known to himself he wasnât being entirely frank, he couldnât for the moment see any reason why he should be lying. Jean-Claudeâs car was still at Les Cinq Parfaits â that was a puzzle. If anything, it pointed to his not having gone very far, or to his having gone with someone else.
Thirdly, there was the strange encounter in the wood. Fourthly, there was the collection of words heâd come across under Jean-Claudeâs blotter. How or why they fitted into the overall picture he hadnât the remotest idea. That the words formed a blackmail note of some kind wasobvious, but how it related to Jean-Claudeâs disappearance was another matter.
Lastly, there was the picture of the girl he was carrying in his pocket along with the list of telephone numbers. That the girl was the reason for Jean-Claudeâs visits to the flower shop he had no doubt; that she was a pupil of the Institut des Beaux Arbres seemed more than likely. She was about the right age. She was English. It was the only school in the area.
Hairpin bends, the nearside edge protected by low stone walls or steel safety-barricades â some bent and twisted where previous drivers had tried to negotiate the corners too fast, caused the lorry in front to slow down almost to walking pace. Frustrated, he stopped in a lay-by and consulted his map. The view down to the valley on his right was breathtaking. In a field just below him an old woman was bent double over a mound of freshly dug potatoes. Nearby a man was picking fruit from a tree. The sound of what seemed like a thousand bells, all tuned to a different pitch, floated up from neatly parcelled areas of pastureland as cows and sheep dipped their heads to munch the rich grass. Old white porcelain baths filled with water for the cattle dotted the landscape, bequeathed by owners who had become affluent and exchanged them in the name of progress for brightly coloured suites made of plastic or fibreglass.
As he set off in the car again he fell to wondering if Albert knew of the girlâs existence. If so, did he approve? Apart from the question of age, he saw no outward reason for disapproval. If heâd had a son of his own, he would have been more than
Having got well and truly stuck behind a laborious sand-carrying camion. Monsieur Pamplemousse took the opportunity to run through in his mind the reasons for making the journey at all. It was really little more than the following up of a hunch; a feeling he couldnât have put into words. But that was how it was; how it had always been. How many times in the past had he not set off on a journey with as little to go on? That was what it was all about. You started with a problem. Then you took all the available facts and you placed them in some kind of order. Perhaps, if the worst came to the worst you put them all into a hat and gave them a good shake. Then you played a hunch.
Holmes would have done the same. Except, of course, he would have carried it through with total conviction and from the comfort of his lodging house. He tried to picture what Holmes might have told Watson before despatching him up the mountainside in a pony and trap.
First, there was the fact that Jean-Claudeâs disappearance had not been premeditated, of that he was sure. Had it been, he would have taken more with him. All his toiletries seemed to be intact. There was no marked absence of clothes or suitcases.
Secondly, he was well-known in the area. If he had caught a train or an autobus anywhere someone would have seen him, assuming Albert Parfait was telling the truth â and apart from a disquieting feeling that for some reason best known to himself he wasnât being entirely frank, he couldnât for the moment see any reason why he should be lying. Jean-Claudeâs car was still at Les Cinq Parfaits â that was a puzzle. If anything, it pointed to his not having gone very far, or to his having gone with someone else.
Thirdly, there was the strange encounter in the wood. Fourthly, there was the collection of words heâd come across under Jean-Claudeâs blotter. How or why they fitted into the overall picture he hadnât the remotest idea. That the words formed a blackmail note of some kind wasobvious, but how it related to Jean-Claudeâs disappearance was another matter.
Lastly, there was the picture of the girl he was carrying in his pocket along with the list of telephone numbers. That the girl was the reason for Jean-Claudeâs visits to the flower shop he had no doubt; that she was a pupil of the Institut des Beaux Arbres seemed more than likely. She was about the right age. She was English. It was the only school in the area.
Hairpin bends, the nearside edge protected by low stone walls or steel safety-barricades â some bent and twisted where previous drivers had tried to negotiate the corners too fast, caused the lorry in front to slow down almost to walking pace. Frustrated, he stopped in a lay-by and consulted his map. The view down to the valley on his right was breathtaking. In a field just below him an old woman was bent double over a mound of freshly dug potatoes. Nearby a man was picking fruit from a tree. The sound of what seemed like a thousand bells, all tuned to a different pitch, floated up from neatly parcelled areas of pastureland as cows and sheep dipped their heads to munch the rich grass. Old white porcelain baths filled with water for the cattle dotted the landscape, bequeathed by owners who had become affluent and exchanged them in the name of progress for brightly coloured suites made of plastic or fibreglass.
As he set off in the car again he fell to wondering if Albert knew of the girlâs existence. If so, did he approve? Apart from the question of age, he saw no outward reason for disapproval. If heâd had a son of his own, he would have been more than
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