Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation Read Online Free PDF

clipboard.
    ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse?’
    ‘
Oui.
’
    Pointedly examining the bonnet to make sure there were no scratches, the man took a key fob from his pocket, used a small attachment to trigger off a second announcement: ‘SYSTEM DISARMED’, then pointed a key in the direction of the inside rear-view mirror. There was an immediate click from both doors.
    ‘I normally drive a Citroën 2CV,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘One of the earlier models.’
    ‘Ah!’ said the man, as though that said it all.
    Handing over the keys, he detached an A5 manila envelope from the clipboard. Beneath it there was a delivery note ready for signing, and with that simple formality completed he bid them both
bonne journée,
turned on his heels and left them to it.
    It was all a bit disappointing. Gone were the days when you received the equivalent of a cockpit check before you were allowed anywhere near the driving seat of a new car, let alone touch the controls.
    The engine started at the first turn of the key. As he eased the car off the pavement and onto the road Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what the man normally dealt in. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t cars. He couldn’t help wondering what was so special about buying a Twingo in Paris when they must be readily available at dealers all over France.
    Not wishing to be seen opening his instructions, he drove off straight away, adjusting the electric wing mirrors and familiarising himself with the ergonomics of the dashboard as he went. It was simplicity itself. A digital display in the central console showed his speed in figures large enough for the driver in the car behind him to read. All the other information he might need: time, total and trip mileage, was his at the touch of a button on the end of the windscreen and rearscreen wash/wipe stalk.
    He turned a knob in front of him and warm air filtered into the compartment. The ventilation fan control to its right increased the flow. Such niceties normally took a good fifteen minutes to bring about in his
deux chevaux
.
    Retracing the route the taxi driver had taken, Monsieur Pamplemousse circumnavigated the Place Denfert-Rochereau, then headed towards the
périphérique
. Firmly ensconced alongside him Pommes Frites occupied himself by eyeing thepassers-by with a lordly air, only transferring his attention to the occupants of other cars when they joined the A6 autoroute.
    His new-found sense of pride and importance lasted until they were some forty kilometres or so outside Paris and his master stopped to take a ticket from a machine at the Péage de Fleury. At that point he decided he might try the back seat for a change. He sensed a long drive ahead.
    All the same, had Pommes Frites been employed as the canine motoring correspondent of one of the better daily
journaux
, he would have awarded his master’s new car full marks in practically every respect. Apart from the initial shock when it had spoken to him in what he considered was an unnecessarily harsh, not to say unfriendly voice, it was comfortable, draught-free and undeniably quiet. It was also surprisingly roomy. If he had a complaint it had to do with there being no canvas top; a fact which he had discovered soon after they reached the autoroute and he tried to poke his head out through the roof in order to get a bit of fresh air. But then, you couldn’t have everything.
    As the barrier went up and Monsieur Pamplemousse set off in earnest he tried out the radio. The morning’s weather forecast had not been good. Snow was falling in the mountains of central France. Glancing up he saw the information panelon the overheard gantry showed 09.17 and confirmed the falling temperature. At least when those two staples, time and weather, were shown it meant there were no hazards in the immediate vicinity.
    Searching for a news bulletin so that he could bring himself up to date, he came across a station playing a Joe Pass record – an old Django Reinhardt