Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation Read Online Free Page B

quarters.’
    ‘Of course,
Monsieur
.’
    ‘Good.’ Monsieur Leclercq removed a piece of white pasteboard from his wallet and made the journey round his desk in record time. ‘Here is the address where the car is to be collected. I will ensure that it is ready first thing tomorrow morning along with the rest of your instructions.
    ‘Enjoy your drive. As for Dulac, I shall await your report with interest.
Bonne chance.’
    ‘What shall I tell the others,
Monsieur
?’
    Monsieur Leclercq looked at him in some surprise. ‘Simply say you are on probation, Pamplemousse. Once word gets around the office about the goings on in Boulogne it will sound more than likely.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse knew from experience that the Director was a past master in the art of bringing an interview to an end, but even so it had to be something of a record.
    He wasn’t even given the chance to say goodbye to Véronique. Before he had time to open his mouth, Monsieur Leclercq’s telephone rang, almost as though it were prearranged, and the farewell handshake was converted through the open doorway into a gesture denoting he required his secretary’s services. Véronique raised one eyebrow in mute apology as she swept past clutching her notebook.
    Even Pommes Frites, normally alert to his master’s comings and goings, only just made it through the door before it closed firmly behind him.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged as he let himself out into the corridor.
    How did the old saying go? ‘When one door shuts another opens.’ Part of the fun in life was not knowing where the next one would lead to.

CHAPTER TWO
    Monsieur Pamplemousse dialled 01 49 36 10 10 for
Les Taxis Bleus
and waited a moment or two until a girl’s voice cut in over the synthesised music. He gave his telephone number, waited for her to come back confirming his address, then relaxed to the strains of music again.
    ‘
Un
Mercedes
gris
. Six minutes.’ Almost at once the girl’s voice broke in again, terminating their brief encounter with a click as she transferred her attention to the next customer in the queue. Having been lulled into a state of unreadiness, Monsieur Pamplemousse leapt into action. It was typical of life. Eight o’clock on a wet morning in Paris, when you would expect there to be delays, and what happened? You were left with six minutes to say your goodbyes, grab your belongings and race downas many flights of stairs. At that time of day there was no point in waiting for the antiquated lift.
    With Pommes Frites hot on his heels, he made it down to the street in a fraction over five minutes, his cheeks barely dry from Doucette’s farewell kiss.
    The Place Marcel Aymé was deserted. There were no men lurking in doorways, cameras at the ready. Equally, there was no
Taxi Bleu
.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse took shelter in the doorway while he got his breath back, leaving Pommes Frites to brave the drizzle as he made his way to the nearest lamp post. Exactly two minutes later there was a swish of water on wet cobblestones and a grey Mercedes pulled up at the kerb.
    Seeing Monsieur Pamplemousse’s luggage the driver climbed out of the car, turned his jacket collar up, and with a certain amount of ill grace went round to the boot.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse made great play of looking at his watch. ‘The traffic is bad today?’ he suggested as he made his way to the kerb. His joke fell as flat as the leaden sky above.
    The man gave a grunt as he slammed the lid shut. ‘It is the hour of
affluence
.’
    Clearly he was in no mood for pleasantries. Monsieur Pamplemousse handed over the card the Director had given him, then opened the rear door and stood waiting.
    ‘He is coming too?’ Catching sight of the driver staring at him, Pommes Frites pointedly shook himself dry before climbing into the back and making himself comfortable on the rear seat.
    ‘You have an objection?’
    The driver glanced up at the rear-view mirror, decided against whatever it was he’d