Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot by Michael Bond

its collection at the Gare du Lyon. You shall have my full report first thing tomorrow morning. We will take it from there. In the meantime, if there is any change for the worse do not hesitate to ring me. I will come at once if necessary.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver and eyed Pommes Frites gloomily. He foresaw difficulties. It was one thing taking a horse to the water; it was another matter entirely getting it to drink. The converse problems in Pommes Frites’ case were all too obvious. Although on the surface Pommes Frites’ plumbing arrangements left a lot to be desired – so much so that a passing stranger encountering him for the first time on the slopes of Montmartre might well have been forgiven had he classed them somewhere between ‘random’ and ‘uncontrolled’ – nevertheless, they were in fact exceedingly complex. Somewhere within the system there was a highly sophisticated computer which, given certain basic pieces of information, such as the time of day, the state of the weather, and the direction in which its owner-operator was heading, could calculate within seconds the number of trees, parked cars and various itemsof street furniture likely to be encountered en route. Armed with this information, the section which dealt with quantity control then dispensed measured doses with laboratory-like precision according to the total litreage available, the number of objects and their relative importance to each other.
    The one thing Pommes Frites’ system lacked was any kind of early-warning system for the benefit of others. Short of lying in wait for him behind a tree, carrying out Durelle’s request would not be easy.
    Reflecting that even Sherlock Holmes might have admitted to being temporarily baffled by the problem, Monsieur Pamplemousse attempted to extract a crumb of comfort from the laden breakfast tray beside his bed.
    Holmes had often begun his cases over breakfast. The Hound of the Baskervilles was a good example; breakfast consumed straight after an early-morning pipe filled with the previous day’s dottle dried on the study mantelpiece. He must have had a constitution of iron.
    Strange, the English predilection for a hearty breakfast. Perhaps it had to do with the uncertain climate. Boiled eggs, served in strange pottery containers, often shaped like hollowed-out human heads which grinned at you across the table. Knowing exactly when the eggs would be done to perfection was a mysterious art which was handed down and could not be described accurately in any cook book.
    He wondered if a call from the Director would have been permitted to break the morning ritual at number 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson would not have been pleased to see her efforts grow cold. Nothing, not even the sight of a newly severed digit in The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb was ever allowed to put Holmes off his breakfast.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the remains of his brioche. It looked most unappetising. Disappointing to start with, now that it had grown cold it was even less enticing. Perhaps it was yet another of Jean-Claude’s skills which had not been passed on. Then, again, perhaps he was already conditioned to not expecting things exactly right; his expectations were now tempered by inside knowledge and the early-morning call from his office.
    Crumbling the remains of the cake between thumb and forefinger, he debated his priorities; whether to attend to Pommes Frites or continue with his telephone calls. He decided on the latter. The longer he left Pommes Frites the stronger would be the call of nature once he surfaced.
    The first number he dialled was engaged, the second was a garage in Evian. He apologised and tried the third number. It was a cancoillotte producer in a village higher up the mountains. Cancoillotte, made with well-rotted Metton cheese warmed over a low heat along with salt water and butter, was a speciality of the area. It was then melted again with white wine and garlic