by Michael Bond
‘Mamma Mia!’ Giampiero returned from an abortive pursuit of the car. He seemed remarkably calm in the circumstances. More relieved than upset. ‘That was a bit of luck!’
‘Luck?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse could hardly believe his ears.
‘Well, I mean your having a wooden leg. Think what it would have been like otherwise. It could have been very nasty.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse clambered to his feet and dusted himself down. Not for the first time that morning he was finding difficulty in expressing himself.
‘Merde!’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Idiot! Imbécile!’
As he stomped off down the road he felt a pain in his leg, or rather a series of tiny pains rolled into one, rather as if someone had hit him with a wire brush. Some of the shot had obviously penetrated the skin. Who knew what vital organs they might have made contact with had they spread any further? Organs that might have required the surgeon’s knife.
‘There’s a very good carpenter in the town,’ called Giampiero. ‘Madame Sophie will give you his name.’
But Monsieur Pamplemousse was already out of sight round a bend in the road and taking stock of the situation. Settling himself down behind an outcrop of rock he gazed sadly at the tattered remains of his notebook, his aide-mémoire, while Pommes Frites busied himself licking the wounds. What months of hard work, what meals they had consumed were recorded within its covers. Now it looked more like a kit of parts for a cardboard colander.
Someone, somewhere, was going to pay dearly for this. If he’d had any doubts before about the wisdom of staying on in St. Castille, they had now gone for ever.
Pommes Frites looked up from his ministrations and wagged his tail in anticipation. He knew the signs.
3
TUESDAY EVENING
Auguste Douard removed a large earthenware marmite from his oven, placed it on top of the ‘piano’ which ran the length of the kitchen, and gave the contents a stir with a long wooden spoon. Having tested the result to his satisfaction, he slid the pot further along towards the cooler end and then turned to Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘For you,’ he said, ‘I am preparing a tian. It is not a dish you will often find in restaurants. It belongs more to the home … it is a family dish. In some of the smaller villages up in the mountains it is still sent out to be cooked in the oven of the boulanger. It is a gratin of green vegetables; spinach, chard, courgettes—all finely chopped and then cooked in olive oil. After that, some rice, beans, a few cloves of garlic, some eggs to thicken and a coating of breadcrumbs and Parmesan cheese. Up here, away from the coast, we also add a little salt cod to taste or some wild asparagus when it is in season.’
He smacked his lips. ‘I think you will enjoy it. It is a good, peasant dish and it will need a good, robust wine to accompany it. A Cornas from the Rhône valley would go well. I have a friend there who has land on the steepest part of the slopes. It is sheltered from the Mistral and he makes wines of great power. He always keeps a little to one side for me. It needs to be ten years old at least.
‘Afterwards, perhaps a Banon or a Bleu d’Auvergne. It is a good time of the year for it. The milk is from herds high up in the mountains and we know a very special farm where it is made. Unpasteurised … the best!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself envying Auguste his circle of friends. It was really partly what it was all about: knowing the right places to buy. He glanced around the kitchen. He never ceased to be surprised by the quietness of it all. Far removed from the popular image, where it was all shouting and noise. In most big kitchens he’d been lucky enough to enter, only the chef himself had a right to speak and when he did everyone jumped to it.
He wondered idly if Monsieur Douard’s choice of a dish which had to be cooked in a stockpot was intentional, a hint. Then he dismissed the thought as being uncharitable. Auguste Douard was one of nature’s gentlemen; he would not be so devious. His next words confirmed the thought.
‘My poor friend. All these years and until today I had no idea. From your walk no one would ever have guessed. Although I have to admit that now I do know I detect a slight limp.’
Once again Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself regretting the story he’d concocted on the spur of the moment. He’d done it with the best of intentions, but throwing out a crumb of comfort for Giampiero was one thing—deceiving others who trusted him was something else again. The only consolation was that the limp Auguste detected was very real. His leg was still smarting from the attentions of the local chemist.
But Auguste already had other things on his mind. Sensing that Monsieur Pamplemousse did not wish to discuss the matter he changed the subject rapidly.
‘Oh, what a day it has been!’ He ran his eye briefly over the clipboard to which the first of the evening’s orders had already been attached, then briefly gave out a few orders with hardly a change of voice. ‘First the examining magistrate poking about here, there and everywhere—trying to sound important, then Inspector Banyuls. And they all expect their little pourboire. As if they were doing me a service! How would they like it if I went into their offices and helped myself to the stationery? Just because I happen to run a restaurant they feel everything should be on the house. Honesty has strange boundaries, even with the law itself.
‘Now they have decided to leave someone permanently on guard in case there is another incident. What a way to greet one’s guests—an armed policeman in the hall!
‘I sometimes think only a fool would go into this business. A fool, or someone who is born with eyes in the back of his head.’ With a wave of his hand he embraced the whole of the kitchen. ‘They are all good people—the best; but at the end of the day it is not their head which is on the chopping block, it is mine. Each and every day—twice a day—my work is offered up for examination and discussion and analysis. Unless I watch their every move and check this, taste that, add a little here, take away a little there, there will be a sauce which is too thick, or a steak which is overdone, or vegetables that have not been properly cleaned. How can I be expected to watch out for criminals in the pantry as well?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse excused himself. More orders were starting to arrive; the pace was quickening. It was no place to linger.
Pommes Frites was waiting for him in the hall, keeping a watchful eye on the gendarme. Pommes Frites and gendarmes didn’t always see eye to eye. Together they made their way into the dining room where Felix was waiting to usher them to their table.
‘A bad business, Monsieur. You are happy? You would not like to sit elsewhere?’
‘Very happy, thank you.’ He wasn’t going to give up his table for anyone. Apart from anything else he welcomed the opportunity to take stock of the restaurant again.
It was less full than usual. News had obviously travelled fast. No doubt there were many who had been put off, at least for the time being. They would be back—it would be their loss if they didn’t return. There would probably be fewer orders for the Poularde en Vessie. If Monsieur Douard had not prepared the tian he might have been tempted to order one out of sheer bravado.
One or two of the diners nudged each other as he sat down. Some stared quite openly. He noted that Giampiero was already seated with his girl friend, if that was what she was—he must check to see if she was wearing a ring—but there was no hint of recognition. He mentally shrugged his shoulders. If that was the way they wanted it, then so be it. They must have started their meal early, for they were already on the cheese course.
Felix came between him and his line of vision, flicked open a serviette, and with rather more ostentation than usual held it out for Monsieur Pamplemousse to take.
Once again he appeared to be behaving rather oddly. It crossed Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind to wonder if he was in for a repeat performance of the previous night’s occurrence, but he dismissed it at once. Auguste was on duty in the kitchen. Besides, he’d seen him plunge the spoon deep into the tian with his own eyes. If there had been anything
untoward inside it would undoubtedly have been revealed. All the same, he had to admit the thought was not a pleasant one.
What on earth was the man doing? Either give him the serviette or not. Each time he reached for it Felix danced away like a matador who has seen better days.
‘A note, Monsieur Pamplemousse,’ hissed Felix.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. Sure enough, partly concealed within the folds of the white serviette, and held in place by Felix’s thumb, was a piece of lined paper.
‘It is from the gentleman in the corner. The one with whom there was the unpleasantness last night. It is a matter of the utmost discretion.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘Leave it on the table. I will look at it in a moment.’
But he needn’t have worried. There was no question of either Giampiero or his companion taking the slightest bit of notice. They were much too busy talking.
Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the wine list and under the pretence of studying it unfolded the paper. The note was short and to the point. It said, quite simply, in large anonymous letters: MUST SEE YOU. CAN’T WAIT. SUGGEST RENDEZ-VOUS.’
He thought for a moment and then, entering into the spirit of the game, took out his pen and added a suitable reply in like hand. The only rendez-vous he could think of without going into great complications was his own room later that night.
He signalled to Felix. ‘Tell the sommelier I will have a bottle of the Cornas,’ he said in a loud voice.
‘See that the note is returned,’ he added quietly. ‘It is inside the wine list; near the front—in the champagne section.’
‘A wise choice, Monsieur, if I may say so. It will go well with your meal.’ Felix gave his approval with scarcely a change of expression as he took the wine list. ‘I will leave it for him in reception.’
Shortly afterwards he disappeared out of the dining room. He wasn’t a moment too soon, for no sooner had he returned than the couple rose from their seats.
As they passed by his table Giampiero’s eyes flickered for a fraction of a second. Monsieur Pamplemousse gave an answering signal that all was well and then they were gone.
By leaning forward he was able to follow their progress. He breathed a sigh of relief as he watched Giampiero make his own way across the hall and take both a key and the note from a pigeon-hole to one side of the reception desk.
There was a moment’s anxiety when the girl, showing signs of impatience, paused on the stairs and said something to him, but Giampiero had everything under control. One second the note was in his hand, the next it had gone. It was like a conjuring trick.
As they disappeared together up the main stairs Monsieur Pamplemousse turned his attention to a plate which had just arrived on his table. It bore a large slice of Pâté de Canard, made as only Auguste could make it, with white Bresse duck, white fillet of pork and foie gras.
The wine was all he’d been led to expect. It was dark. It must have been almost black when it was first made. It tasted of the hard work that had gone into it and it augured well for the tian to come. Monsieur Pamplemousse winced as he jotted down a few notes before his main course arrived. He wished he’d thought to apply a little padding beneath his freshly repaired trousers. The ladies in the nettoyage had been most intrigued and he’d had to concoct yet another story.
He gave the wine a gentle swirl in the glass to open it out a little more. It was good that Auguste had chosen a simple dish in response to his request for something out of the ordinary. It was a point in his favour. All too often restaurants with two Stock Pots were guilty of over-embellishment; of too great an addiction to the cream jug with their sauces. They had grown up in an age when rich sauces were part and parcel of haute cuisine, and in many cases they were so steeped in tradition they would probably never change their ways. It was the younger generation of chefs who had tried to break away from tradition. More and more they were laying claim to a third Stock Pot—and deservedly so. Without succumbing to the worst excesses of nouvelle cuisine, where colour and presentation often took precedence over all else, many had returned to the recipes of their forefathers and a simplicity which was wholly admirable in a land which was rich in meat and fish and fresh vegetables. It was a move which won his wholehearted approval and the tian in front of him was a blissful example.
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked forward to observing Pommes Frites’ views on the matter, although if the lip-smacking going on under the table was anything to go by, the result was a foregone conclusion.
Waving aside the offer of a second helping, he issued instructions for a portion to be kept warm until they retired; an unnecessary request since Pommes Frites’ reactions were much sought after and appreciated everywhere they went. A clean plate and a satisfied licking of the whiskers were accolades in themselves.
His cheese over and done with, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided against a coffee and opted instead for a tisane verveine in his room. To be truthful he had eaten more than enough, and a couple of involuntary sneezes came as a warning sign that his liver needed something more than the Vichy water to keep it in good working order.
A turn round the square with Pommes Frites was indicated. Apart from anything else there was work to be done and he needed to marshal his thoughts. The attack earlier in the day had been worrying to say the least; the more so as he still wasn’t sure who had been the prime target—himself or Giampiero. Although the latter had brushed it aside at the time, there was something in his manner which didn’t ring quite true. It crossed his mind that Giampiero might even have wanted to be followed that morning.
As they left the hotel he took a look around. It was already dark. A few people were taking their coffee on the hotel terrace. On the other side of the square the sound of laughter came from the Café du Centre. Somewhere a radio blared forth and then just as quickly cut out again. It was replaced by a rasping sound. Metal against metal. That, too, stopped again as suddenly as it had begun. Monsieur Pamplemousse was too old a hand to feel nervous, but there was a noticeable quickening of his step as he set off, carefully avoiding the shadowy areas of the little streets leading from either side of the Hôtel de Ville.
His feelings were obviously shared by Pommes Frites. After his nasty experience with the bush he directed his activities very pointedly at man-made objects, such as the fountain in the middle of the square. Pommes Frites was definitely off nature for the time being. After his nasty experience that morning even the plane trees surrounding the boules area were objects of suspicion. You knew where you were with stone. Stone stayed where it had been put.
His inspection and the call of nature complete, Pommes Frites took a last sniff and then led the way very firmly round the back of the hotel towards the kitchens. He felt hungry and supper was long overdue. Unlike some people, he only had two meals a day—give or take a snack or two in between.
Monsieur Pamplemousse undid the boot of his 2CV, removed a small canvas bag and metal cylinder, and connected the two together with a length of flexible tubing. He turned a knob on the cylinder, there was a hiss of escaping air, and seconds later a miniature house began to take shape, emerging from its container like a butterfly shedding its cocoon.
A deft tug at a zip fastener holding the front door in place, the spreading of a blanket on the floor, and the kennel was complete and ready for occupation.
As if on cue, a waiter emerged from the back of the hotel carrying a bowl containing the remains of the tian and another full of water. Soon Pommes Frites was busy with his supper.
Monsieur Pamplemousse knew better than to interrupt. From the expression on his face it was clear that Auguste’s choice met with Pommes Frites’ approval, and after a brief good-night pat on the head, he left him to it and turned back inside.
Pommes Frites’ kennel was a great boon. The invention of a rubber specialist in Paris, who normally devoted his talents to more esoteric items, it made travelling around France much less of a problem than it might
have been. Not all hotels welcomed dogs, and some charged accordingly. It also saved the embarrassment of having Pommes Frites suffer the indignity of being ‘relegated’ to the back of the car, as had sometimes happened in the early days. There were some things in life that were hard to explain to a dog. There was also the fact that after a heavy meal Pommes Frites was apt to snore rather loudly and, much as he loved him, sharing a room was not always the happiest of arrangements.
Closing the door behind him, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way to the reception desk in order to collect his room key and to see if there was any mail.
Drawing a blank as far as mail was concerned, he picked up his key from the receptionist, confirmed his order for the tisane and turned to go upstairs, treading warily round some buckets and other paraphernalia left by the builders who were doing things to the downstairs facilities.
As he did so he became aware of some sort of activity going on in the little room which served as an office for Madame Sophie Douard.
Under the pretence of getting himself entangled with the handle of a bucket, Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at Madame Douard in astonishment. Hidden from the watchful eye of the receptionist, she was standing just inside the doorway to her room and behaving in the most extraordinary manner. Both hands behind her neck, rather as if she was searching for something she had dropped down the back of her dress, she was rolling her eyes and running her tongue round her lips as if in the throes of some kind of a fit. For a moment he was irresistibly reminded of the seduction scene from a very bad film, then just as quickly he dismissed the thought. It was unthinkable.
He had never given the slightest cause for such behaviour.
Madame Sophie was probably having trouble with her zip fastener—either that or she’d had a bad attack of hiccups and had been trying to cure it by means of a cold key down her back. He was about to offer to go to her assistance when there was the sound of voices heading their way. Almost immediately Madame Douard sprang into action. Removing her hands from behind her neck, she straightened her dress and pushed the door shut with one swift movement.