Monsieur Pamplemousse (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took a quick look round the room, noted in passing that the couple behind the screen were nowhere to be seen, then he sat down and gazed at the dish in front of him.

  To say that the head looked vaguely familiar would have been a gross exaggeration in the circumstances. It was too misshapen to be readily identifiable as any­thing other than that of a man, perhaps, to judge by the matted covering of black hair, in his early thirties … and yet …

  As if to sum up the feelings of all those present in the room, Pommes Frites lifted up his head and gave vent to a loud howl.

  ‘Please,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse wearily as the sound died away, ‘will someone cover up this monstrosity before I make a similar noise.’

  And then, instincts born out of years spent in not totally dissimilar situations coming to the fore, he stood up again and raised his hand for silence.

  ‘I must ask that you all remain where you are for the time being. No one is to move until the police arrive.’

  ‘I protest!’ A man at a nearby table jumped to his feet and glared at him. ‘My wife is upset. I demand to be allowed to leave. By what right …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to take a chance. Reaching into an inside pocket he withdrew a small wallet, flicked it open, and flashed a card briefly through the air. ‘By this right, Monsieur. And when I say no one,’ he continued, ‘that is precisely what I mean. No one.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse spoke with an air of quiet authority. An authority which many people over the years had good cause to remember, often to their cost. As he flicked the wallet shut and returned it to his pocket a faint smile crossed his face. Really, it was quite like old times.

  ‘You realise that impersonating a police officer is an offence?’

  ‘Impersonating?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows in mock protest. ‘Not for one single instant did I say I was a police officer. I merely showed them my American Express card. If they chose to …’

  Inspector Banyuls brushed aside the words. His point had been made; his authority established. Leaning back in his chair he examined his fingernails. It was a meeting of opposites. The dislike had been mutual and instantaneous.

  ‘I accept that you acted in what you considered to be the best interests. Nevertheless …’ he looked up with a gesture which indicated that from now on, he, Inspector Banyuls, was in charge.

  ‘Who would you consider most likely to wish to do you some harm?’ The implication that the list could be a long one was not lost on Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘I have been retired from the Sûreté for several years now,’ he began.

  ‘Ah, yes …’ Inspector Banyuls couldn’t resist the opportunity. ‘I remember now. It was in all the papers at the time. What was it they called it? The Case of the Cuckolded Chorus? Almost the whole of the line. How many girls were involved? Twenty-two?’

  ‘Fifteen,’ growled Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It was a trumped-up charge. Besides, anyone who wanted to do me harm would have done so long ago.’

  ‘Some husbands have long memories … As for lovers …’

  ‘Were I still in Paris, perhaps … but in this part of the world?’

  ‘It has all the marks of the Mafia. A warning perhaps? Keep off … next time …’ Inspector Banyuls made the classic throat-cutting gesture. Despite himself, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down his spine. Banyuls was right.

  ‘These things … the Mafia, they are more of the South than of the North.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you say you recognised the head?’

  ‘It looked familiar, that is all.’

  Inspector Banyuls tried a different approach. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘It is a private matter. One that need not concern you.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse returned the other’s gaze without blinking.

  ‘And you are leaving, when?’

  ‘I have yet to decide. It depends.’

  ‘Depends?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse refused to be drawn. Instead he cupped his hands round a large balloon-shaped glass to warm it and then sniffed the contents with an air of well-being.

  ‘Would you care to join me in an Armagnac? It is the ’28. A great year. I can recommend it. It is the patron’s Réserve d’Artagnan. A whiff of Three Musketeers country. One can taste the oak from the forest of Monzelun.’ Even as he spoke he knew he was saying the wrong thing.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Pamplemousse. The pay of an inspector in the French police does not allow for such pleasures—even before retirement. One day you must let me know how you manage it. And now …’ he rose, ‘there is work to be done. There are others to be questioned. I must thank you again for your foresight in retaining them. Perhaps some will have a better memory of the event than you appear to.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse acknowledged the words with a nod. He’d been about to remark on the absence of the young couple, but he decided against it. Why should he put himself out? The problem was Inspector Banyuls’ concern, not his. Had he been Inspector Banyuls there were a number of questions which would have required an answer.

  Where, for example, was Madame Douard?

  In all the years he’d been visiting La Langoustine she had never been absent from her post, greeting guests as they arrived, visiting all the tables to make sure every­one was happy. He hadn’t seen her all the evening. It was very odd.

  Monsieur Douard was also conspicuous by his absence. Busy though he always was, he was never too busy to pop out for a quick greeting. Tonight he was nowhere to be seen.

  Then there was the extraordinary behaviour of Felix.

  Last, but not least, there was the matter of the head.

  Lifelike though it undoubtedly was—or had been before the application of heat—the inescapable fact remained that it was made of plastic, pinkish brown, shiny plastic, something he’d realised straight away on closer inspection.

  Alors! He turned his attention to the Armagnac. 1928. The year of his birth. Was that why he had chosen it? Or was it some perverse and rather petty desire to score over the inspector; to show that although he might be retired he certainly wasn’t yet out of the running? If so, it was an unworthy motive—one which would have disappointed the makers had they been present. Such ambrosial spirit was meant for higher things.

  It was also meant to be savoured in peace and quiet. Really, the noise in the restaurant had reached an intolerable level. Even Inspector Banyuls seemed to have lost something of his cool as he did battle with the rest of the occupants, each trying to get a word in first.

  Watching him run a distraught hand round the inside of his shirt collar, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a pang of sympathy. Perhaps, despite his dislike of the other, he should have been more co-operative. Fuelled by the warmth of the liquid now at work in his veins, his feeling of remorse grew. He felt a sudden desire to mount a rescue operation; to create a diversion. A wicked gleam came into his eyes.

  Rapping his empty glass sharply on the table, he stood up and cleared his throat. Almost immediately the room fell silent.

  ‘Everyone,’ he said, choosing his words with care, ‘seems most concerned about the Poularde de Bresse en Vessie Royale—or perhaps in the circumstances I should say the Tête en Vessie Royale—with which I was served earlier in the evening, but which, I hasten to add, I did not touch. Not a morsel passed my lips. But no one yet seems to have considered the fact that the head of this unfortunate young man was once attached to a body and that a body has many parts.’

  Here Monsieur Pamplemousse paused for effect, conscious that all eyes were on him.

  He turned to a woman nearby. ‘I notice, Madame, that you ordered the Pâté de Cervelle en Croûte—brains in pastry. I trust they were to your liking? Not too smooth?

  ‘And you, Monsieur, did you enjoy your liver? Or do you now wish you’d ordered the truite?

  ‘As for you, Monsieur, I believe you had the hearts?’

  Pressing home his advantage remo
rselessly, Mon­sieur Pamplemousse looked towards the American ladies. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing you ask for your leg of lamb to be well done. A wise decision. If it had been too rare it might have acquired even more of a nightmarish quality in the years to come.’

  He glanced down at the menu. ‘I see they have andouillette. Now, that would have been quite an ex­perience …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was enjoying himself. Now that he was beginning to warm to his theme there were all sorts of exciting possibilities.

  But his pleasure was short-lived. The silence which followed his remarks was broken by a loud crunching sound. It came from a spot somewhere near his feet.

  ‘Sapristi!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse turned and gazed at the empty dish on his serving table. ‘Oh, my word! Oh, my very word!’

  Pommes Frites gazed unhappily around the room, a rivulet of pinkish gravy running down his chin. He liked an audience and one way and another he’d been feeling pretty left out of things. Not only that, but he’d been getting more and more hungry. Now, both situations had been well and truly rectified; the former in a way which left little to be desired, the latter in a way which left a great deal. Never in the whole of his life had he tasted anything quite so disgusting.

  On the other side of the room someone was noisily sick.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was pleased to see it was Inspector Banyuls. At least when Pommes Frites dis­graced himself he gave value for money.

  2

  TUESDAY MORNING

  Pommes Frites was fed up. Fed up and in disgrace; or fed up because he was in disgrace. It amounted to much the same thing in the end. Everywhere he went in St. Castille he left a trail of ‘Oooh, la la!’s, as passers-by pointed him out and recounted their version of the previous night’s escapade.

  And as he continued his perambulations so the story was repeated and handed on, growing in horror and complexity, until by the time he got back to the Square du Centre mothers were running out into the street to grab their protesting children and drag them indoors lest his appetite and taste for blood got the better of him again.

  Convicted on circumstantial evidence, that’s what he’d been.

  Inspector Banyuls had not been pleased. If Inspector Banyuls had had his way, banishment to an open-ended kennel in Siberia during the depths of winter would have been among the least of his punishments. There had been talk of arrest and charges of consuming vital evidence with criminal intent.

  Just because he’d happened to be standing near the empty dish at the time and happened to have gravy on his chin. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if he’d enjoyed his meal, but he couldn’t remember ever having eaten anything quite so unappetising before; he could still taste it. If he, Pommes Frites, had any say in the matter not only would La Langoustine be out of the running for a further Stock Pot, they would lose the two they already possessed.

  Unkindest cut of all, in all the excitement he’d been sent to bed supperless. It was a good job he’d remem­bered a small cache of bones buried in the garden during a previous visit, otherwise he might have starved to death. Then they would have been sorry. It was not quite what his taste buds had been expecting, but in the circumstances better than nothing.

  Even his master’s defence of his actions had seemed a little half-hearted. But at least he had tried, bringing to bear such arguments as he could muster to make the point that Pommes Frites couldn’t be blamed for giving way to what were, after all, only his animal instincts.

  Animal instincts indeed! In his time Pommes Frites had dined at some of the best restaurants in France, and although he wouldn’t, and most certainly didn’t, ever turn up his nose at the odd biscuit or two when they were offered, there were limits.

  To show the extent of his displeasure he left his mark against the side of the fountain and then confirmed everyone’s worst suspicions by baring his teeth at a small boy who had come to watch, adding a rather satisfactory growling noise for good measure.

  As the child ran off screaming, Pommes Frites began to feel slightly better. He made his way across the square towards the hotel and peered in at the bar in the hope that his master might have finished breakfast and be ready to join him in another stroll.

  But Monsieur Pamplemousse was deep in conver­sation with the patron. In fact, had the question been put to him in so many words, a walk was not high on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s agenda at that moment in time. He had other things to think about. One way and another he’d spent a sleepless night and while listening to Monsieur Douard he was fortifying himself with an early morning marc over his coffee, strictly for medicinal purposes, of course. It was the least he could do for his nerves.

  Pommes Frites hesitated, torn between the thought of another stroll and not wanting to miss anything. In the end curiosity won the day and he curled up comfortably at his master’s feet, pretending he was asleep but in reality keeping a weather eye open for possible clues which might help him to redeem his lost reputation.

  ‘Such a thing has never happened before!’ Monsieur Douard, his head buried in his hands, was going back over things for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Always I am down in the kitchen in good time for the evening’s work, while Sophie gets ready to welcome the guests … and yet, last night … I do not know what came over us. One moment we were awake, I in my room, Sophie in hers, the next moment … poof! … we were out like a light. No one could awaken us. Thank heaven for Pierre.

  ‘Pierre is my new chef de cuisine. He trained in much the same way as I did—at the same school, in fact. Mark my words, a spell with Bocuse, or perhaps the Troisgros brothers, and one day he, too, will have his own restaurant. Perhaps he will be the first to win three Stock Pots in his native Brittany. The kitchen of a restaurant is like the bridge of an ocean liner—it can, and often does, function without its captain. Never­theless, things are not quite the same. Pierre is good, and in time he will be even better, but he has been brought up by the sea—he has it in his blood. I tell him, sometimes he is a little too fond of the salt. He is also lacking in fire. If I had been in my kitchen last night those maquereaux would not have got away with it as they did.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse breathed a sigh of relief. He decided to try one more test.

  ‘Will you join me in a marc?’

  Monsieur Douard raised his hands in mock horror. ‘I have a busy day ahead of me. Later, perhaps, but if I were to start now …’

  Things were beginning to fall into place. The absence of Madame Douard at dinner. The non-appearance of Auguste. The general air of things not being quite as they should have been. The over-salted sauce Madère … only one more item remained unexplained. No doubt Inspector Banyuls had already posed the question, but there would be no harm in asking it again.

  ‘I still don’t understand how the change round of dishes came about. It couldn’t have been easy.’

  Auguste Douard made a clucking noise. ‘Ah, poor Felix. I fear we shall not be seeing him before tonight. He has taken to his bed. He was attacked in the pantry earlier in the afternoon by an armed assailant—dis­guised, would you believe, as a waiter?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt that by now he would believe almost anything.

  ‘While the kitchen was empty,’ continued Auguste dramatically, ‘this same man forced him at gun point and under threat of death, to substitute a dish he had brought with him for the real one. As you know, Poularde de Bresse en Vessie Royale has to be ordered in advance.’

  ‘And how many were ordered last night?’

  ‘Five others besides your own. I supervised their preparation earlier in the day.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse fell silent. So the one which had arrived at his table had not necessarily been meant for him.

  ‘I have a theory.’ Monsieur Douard forestalled his next question. ‘It is my belief that someone wishes to bring disgrace on the house of Douard. As you will understand, I have many rivals, some of whom would stick at nothing.’

  ‘Isn’t tha
t a bit extreme?’

  ‘Extreme?’ Auguste Douard dismissed the thought. ‘You have no idea of the rivalry, no idea. Especially,’ he cast a sidelong glance at Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘especially when it is an open secret that La Langoustine is in the running for a third Stock Pot.

  ‘There is big money involved. To have three Stock Pots in Le Guide, or three stars in Michelin, or even four toques in Gault Millau, is an open-sesame to other things; a pass-key to many doors which would other­wise remain closed. One reaches another plateau. Have you ever been in a restaurant on the day they receive news of their third Stock Pot? The telephone doesn’t stop ringing. There are offers for lecture tours, television programmes, books … merchandising rights … many men would give their right arm for such opportunities, and equally many would stop at nothing to prevent others reaching that goal. As in all fields, success brings its problems. For every person who reaches the heights there are others waiting in the wings. Alors …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave him an oblique glance. Auguste Douard clearly wished to say something, but equally clearly he was unsure whether it was safe to or not.

  He decided to test the water. ‘You have something on your mind, Monsieur?’

  Auguste took a deep breath. ‘You are a man of the world, Monsieur Pamplemousse, accustomed to eating in the best restaurants, staying at the best hotels, drinking the best wines …

  ‘Suppose … suppose, for example, you had been in the position last night of having to pass judgment on La Langoustine? A judgment that might well affect its entire future. How would you be feeling this morning in the cold light of day?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse busied himself with his coffee. So his secret was out. Merde! What would they say back at headquarters if they knew? It would be a black mark. Monsieur le Directeur would not be pleased.

  Auguste Douard read his thoughts. ‘You must understand that any man who dines regularly by him­self and orders with an air of authority is an object of interest, particularly at this time of the year when all the guides are being prepared. The man from Michelin we usually recognise because he is for ever drawing little symbols in his diary and going through the menu to make sure there are no spelling mistakes—they are very meticulous, those ones. The man from Gault Millau, on the other hand, is much more concerned with his nouvelle cuisine and after he has left we find many notes torn up in the waste bucket. They are very fond of their purple prose. Those from the English guides ask “What is for breakfast?” Whereas …’