Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation Read Online Free PDF Page B

number – ‘Douce Ambience’. The hi-fi stereo with its four different sound sources made his own radio with a single loudspeaker below the dashboard sound tinny.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt better as the combination of guitar, bass and drums set his fingers and his left foot tapping. It seemed a fitting accompaniment to the journey; underscoring the return to his childhood so to speak. He’d grown up with the music of the Quintet of the Hot Club of France, and the music you grew up with stayed with you for the rest of your life, dating you as surely as any birth certificate. It was a sadness that he’d never had the chance to share his pleasure with Doucette. In 1953, at the ridiculously early age of forty-three, Reinhardt had died of a stroke. They had missed seeing Joe Pass when he was playing in Paris, and now he, too, had departed this world. You should always seize hold of opportunities when they came your way. Which, of course, was exactly what he was doing driving south on the A6.
    Helping himself to a sweet from a small bag in the side pocket of the door (it was the same colour as the paintwork, yellow, another thoughtful touch of Twingo chicness) he moved the envelope lying on top of the dashboard to avoid its reflection on the windscreen.
    What Doucette didn’t understand was that the Director enjoyed playing his cards close to his chest. That was the way he was and he would never change.
    What was the other thing he’d said on the phone? ‘Everything will be down in writing. Make sure you study it carefully before committing it to memory and destroying it.’ His voice had sounded slightly muffled, as though he’d had his hand over the mouthpiece. Since he’d been phoning from home, it must mean it was something he didn’t want his wife, Chantal, to know about.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse gave it another twenty minutes or so and then couldn’t contain himself any longer.
    Exiting the autoroute at the Aire de Villiers, he parked under some trees near the children’s play area, and reached for the envelope. Aside from two small children looking for all the world like miniature space-persons in their moon boots and padded anoraks, the place was empty. Pommes Frites eyed them through the window and decidedagainst joining in; the weather was clouding over again and he’d only just dried out.
    Slitting open the carefully sealed envelope, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed a grey wallet containing all the usual paraphernalia; handbook, service manual, a 227-page list of agents worldwide (not surprisingly, the address where he’d taken delivery of the car didn’t get a mention), details of the Philips RC388 Car System (radio was obviously a dirty word) and a leaflet congratulating him on purchasing a fine security alarm system. They could say that again.
    Tucked away inside a pocket was a smaller sealed manila envelope bearing his name. Slitting it open, he found a sheet of plain, unheaded white typing paper inside.
    ‘Dear Aristide,’ he read. ‘Please treat this car as you would your own. Make sure Pommes Frites wipes his paws thoroughly before entering.’
    ‘Now he tells me!’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He’ll be wanting me to gift wrap it next.’
    He read on and as he did so any thoughts he might have had about taking a leisurely stroll around the rest area before he began the journey proper, perhaps viewing the bronze statues dotted about amongst the Mediterranean Pines, or lingering over the displays of soil from the Forest of Fontainbleau, disappeared from his mind.
    The Director’s note wasn’t at all what he had expected. He read through it again, committed the whole thing to memory as instructed, then tore the note into small pieces and deposited the remains in a nearby rubbish bin before setting off.
    Glancing up at the rear-view mirror, Monsieur Pamplemousse made sure Pommes Frites was safely settled, then put his foot down and accelerated out into the slow lane between two large