Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot by Michael Bond Page B

happy. Come to think of it, if the girl had been his daughter he would have felt equally happy. Or would he? Jean-Claude would be something of a catch. Anyone who married him would have to be fairly special; the life was not an easy one. Nor would Albert wish to see his son diverted from his chosen path – or, more to the point, the one that he had chosen for him. Already his absence had caused unrest, but that was hardly a reason for family jiggery-pokery. Besides, a girl who had been given the added benefit of a spell at a finishing school, versed in the social graces, ought to be ideal.
    He tried to picture her again, sitting in the restaurant, an altogether more vulnerable figure than the one in the photograph. Since she had been alone and clearly worried, she was probably as much in the dark as he was. He found himself wanting to help her if it was at all possible.
    He began toying with the idea of asking Madame Schmidt outright if he could see the girl. She could hardly refuse. On the other hand, he had probably made it impossible; by a chance word he had burned his boats. Madame Schmidt would hardly believe him now if he came up with a story about being a friend of the family who happened to be in the area.
    He saw the sign marking the turn-off for the Institut a moment too late. Reversing the 2CV wasn’t easy, especially as Pommes Frites was beginning to show signs of what American astronauts in their quaint jargon called ‘stomach awareness’, and insisted on sitting bolt upright with a pained expression on his face, looking neither to the right nor to the left, as if the problem was not of his making – which, in fairness, it wasn’t.
    The road leading up to the school was narrower still. Unusually, Michelin seemed to have ignored its existence, eschewing even the doubtful honour of awarding it a single dotted black line on their map of the area. The only sign, just before the entrance, had been one warning of danger from falling rock.
    He opened the gates, drove through, then stopped to get out and close them again. The bolt clicked home. Madame Schmidt obviously took good care of her pupils. To one side there was a passing place large enough to accommodate a whole fleet of limousines. From the gate the road dropped down again towards a hidden valley and then, a few hundred metres further on, he encountered a junction with a bevy of signs pointing in different directions: to the left, the staff quarters and the delivery area; straight on to the recreation area, students’ chalets and visitors’ carpark. The main building lay to the right.
    There were three other cars parked outside the house: a black Mercedes 220 with a Swiss registration, and two Peugeot 505s – one with a local registration and the otherbearing a Paris 75 on its number-plate. The one from Paris looked as if it had recently been driven through a heavy rainstorm; the sides were flecked with mud almost to window-height and there were clear patches on the windscreen where the wipers had been used. Whoever had been at the wheel had been in a hurry.
    Madame Schmidt was waiting at the door to greet him. She looked as if she were used to people being late. His apologies were brushed aside as of no great consequence.
    Pommes Frites didn’t look at all put out at being left in the car; rather the reverse. He assumed his ‘aloof from it all, see you when I see you’ expression as he curled up in the front seat to await further instructions. Nevertheless, as the door to the Institut des Beaux Arbres closed behind his master he sat up and automatically registered a quick movement behind one of the windows, the falling into place of a curtain. Having stored the information in the back of his mind in case it was ever needed, he closed his eyes and went to sleep again.
    Inside the house, Monsieur Pamplemousse was also busily committing various items to memory. Not only the restrained but undoubted luxury of the