by Michael Bond
‘Your very good health!’
‘Congratulations to you both on a successful mission.’ The Director joined them in clinking glasses.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was conscious of eyes watching them from other tables in the Ty Coz’s dining room. The sight of two nuns and a Mother Superior arriving with their own wine and imbibing it with such obvious enjoyment probably confirmed the worst suspicions of many of those present.
Mr. Pickering looked at his watch. ‘The airship must have crossed the English coast by now. Their journey will be nearly at an end.’
‘I still find it hard to believe,’ said the Director. ‘I have to confess that when I heard the explosion I thought my worst fears had been realised. I fully expected to see the dirigible coming down in flames.’
‘You were not alone,’ said Mr. Pickering.
Monsieur Pamplemousse inwardly voiced his agreement. It had been a nasty moment, one he wouldn’t wish to repeat in a hurry. ‘And the caravan?’
‘Almost totally wrecked. One side has completely disappeared. Andreas ended up as a kit of parts for someone the world is well rid of.’
‘There were no other casualties?’
‘None, fortunately. If it had happened later in the evening when everyone was arriving for the circus it could have been a disaster area.’
‘But why? I still do not understand why.’ The Director pointedly made play with his empty glass. ‘Did he have more explosive stored there? If so, what caused it to go off?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse exchanged a quick glance with Mr. Pickering and received the go-ahead.
‘I think, Monsieur, it was partly to do with fate and partly to do with Pommes Frites.’
‘A formidable combination.’ Mr. Pickering took the hint and reached across the table in order to recharge the Director’s glass. ‘A case of the proverbial irresistible force teaming up with an immovable object.’
‘Pommes Frites found the explosive in the first place. He picked up the scent the day I travelled on the airship. It was hidden in one of the bags of ballast.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse reached down and felt under the table for the subject under discussion. He received an affectionate lick in return. ‘One tends to forget that he is a dog of many talents. Long before he and I met he attended a sniffer course in Paris. I understand he was top of his class for that year. He won the Pierre Armand trophy.
‘Fate then stepped in and decreed that I put the bag in the waste bin outside Andreas’s caravan.’
Fate, or was it pre-ordained? If it was the latter, then it had been operating from the moment his car ended up in a ditch the day he arrived, perhaps even before that. It was an interesting point. On the same basis, the fate of two leading heads of state in the western world had been largely determined by his spearing the end of Pommes Frites’ nose with a ball-point pen. It was a sobering thought. The manufacturers would probably love to be able to quote the fact in their literature.
He looked around the room. Strange unidentifiable agricultural implements adorned the walls; the whole area surrounding the huge stone fireplace was taken up with an unlikely mural of the Camargue. Wild horses were dashing towards the exit – probably trying to escape the ghastly food at the Ty Coz. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why the Director had insisted on dining there in the first place.
Sitting at a nearby table was a young English family; mother, father and three children, all red from the sun and wind. The children kept looking across and giggling. A scattering of Germans and a few French families, very casually dressed, were eating noisily; the prime window seat was occupied by an elderly English couple – probably the Bentley owners. They looked as if they owned the table as well. The man was wearing a cravat, his one concession to their being on holiday. He would probably dress for dinner even if they were in the middle of the African jungle, resolutely refusing to ‘go native’. A young couple, both wearing headphones, jiggled to different rhythms over a bowl of moules. Perhaps everyone was taking part in some pre-ordained plan. Given the abysmal food, he couldn’t picture any other reason. What had they all done to deserve such a fate? The strangest part of all was the fact that they actually seemed to be enjoying themselves. It made a mockery of his job with Le Guide.
‘I was explaining to Monsieur le Directeur,’ Mr. Pickering broke into his reverie, ‘the one thing we hadn’t bargained for was Andreas not actually being inside the artificial menhir, but simply using it as a relay station. The main control for detonating the explosive was safely inside the caravan. Given his background and knowledge of electronics it wasn’t a difficult thing to set up. It turned the whole thing into an arm’s-length transaction as it were, and it also had the advantage that he could keep an eye on the airship from his window and give himself an alibi at the same time if things went wrong. No doubt when the experts search the wreckage of the caravan they will find all the evidence, but he must have had some warning device to let him know if the menhir was being tampered with. As soon as that sounded he took the decision to blow up the airship and in doing so blew himself up instead. It was, in many ways, not unjust, even an elegant solution to many people’s problems.’
The Director broke in. ‘But how did he manage to get the explosive on board the airship in the first place?’
‘It probably wasn’t all that difficult. As Aristide will tell you, security was fairly lax in the beginning. All he would have had to do was turn up carrying a brief-case and clip-board. You can go anywhere if you carry a clip-board.’
Mr. Pickering was saved any further explanations by the arrival of his first course: coquilles St. Jacques – cooked the Breton way, in cider. The Director had chosen the sea-food platter which arrived on a vast oval tray placed on a stand in the centre of the table. On a bed of crushed ice lay a montage of winkles and mussels, baby shrimps, oysters, pink langoustines, crabs and other delicacies, nestling amongst dark green sea-weed and yellow halves of a lemon.
On the grounds that it might have been bought outside rather than made in the Ty Coz’s kitchen, Monsieur Pamplemousse had ordered a portion of pork rillettes. It looked rather lonely on its over-large plate. Glancing at the other dishes, he almost regretted his choice, but it was a case of being better safe than sorry.
A large faux-filet steak, already partly cut-up, arrived in a separate dish and was placed on the floor beside his feet. Pommes Frites eyed it non-committally from beneath the table-cloth. Like his master, he had his doubts.
As the waitress wished them ‘bon appétit’ and withdrew, the Director tucked a napkin into his shirt collar and helped himself to a shrimp. ‘Explosives, sabotage, hijackings, terrorism, fibreglass menhirs … what is the world coming to?’
‘What indeed?’ said Mr. Pickering. ‘Mind you, I may go into business manufacturing fibreglass menhirs myself when I retire. I’m sure there are lots of people in England who would like one at the bottom of their garden. They would make very good sheds – or homes for gnomes.’
‘There must be many people in Brittany,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘who wish they hadn’t got one in their garden.’
‘The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.’ Mr. Pickering reached for the second bottle of wine. Under cover of the sea-food platter the Director surreptitiously drained his glass and applied a napkin to his mouth.
‘I congratulate you on your choice, Pickering. I must make a note of the vineyard. The wine has an uncommon potency.’
Mr. Pickering acknowledged the compliment. ‘It is an anomaly of your otherwise excellent French wine laws. When the appellation was first created the vineyards mostly produced a sweet white wine so they were allowed only a very small yield per hectare and the alcoholic content had to be a minimum of 12.5 degrees. Although many of them have now turned to making a much drier wine they still have to retain the same high degree of alcohol. It is a handicap to the growers, but an enormous bonus for the rest of us …’ He broke off as a series of bleeps sounded from somewhere under his sc
apular. ‘Please excuse me. I think I am needed. Perhaps, if you catch the eye of the waitress, you could ask for the condiments. That is my only complaint so far – a definite lack of salt in the cooking. It does help to bring out the flavour, you know.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head as Mr. Pickering disappeared. ‘A strange race the British. Their knowledge of wine often exceeds our own, but when it comes to food …’
‘Perhaps, Aristide, your tastebuds have become jaded over the years by too much good living,’ said the Director. ‘You have yet to try the rillettes.’
Feeling rebuffed from an unexpected corner, Monsieur Pamplemousse broke off a piece of toast, reached for his knife, cut off a wedge of chunky paste, added a gherkin, set his taste buds in motion with a black olive, then sat back to contemplate the result. It was, he had to admit, better than he had expected.
The olive was jet-black and plump; the rillettes had clearly been made from prime meat, he could taste goose as well as pork; the gherkin had been pickled in a delicately spiced mixture of wine vinegar and dill.
Hearing a rattling noise at his feet he looked down. Pommes Frites had finished his steak and was licking his lips with relish.
‘Well, Aristide?’
‘I have tasted worse, Monsieur.’ His reply was suitably guarded.
‘Good. Madame Grante will be pleased.’
‘Madame Grante?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse paused with another portion of toast halfway to his mouth. A delicately balanced gherkin fell off and landed on the floor. Pommes Frites eyed it with interest. ‘What does Madame Grante have to do with it?’
‘Ah, Aristide.’ The Director regarded him unhappily from behind a pair of nutcrackers which he had been about to apply to a lobster claw. ‘I am very glad you asked me that. Very glad indeed.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse waited patiently while the Director busied himself with the inside of the claw. For someone who had professed himself eagèr to answer a question, he was being somewhat tardy.
‘My reasons for suggesting you stayed here, Aristide, were several-fold.’
‘Several-fold, Monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the Director suspiciously. ‘Are you saying there is another fold to come?’
‘That is one way of putting it.’ The Director looked, if anything, even more unhappy.
‘Madame Grante is a good woman, Aristide, a good woman. Much maligned by other members of staff, but a good woman for all that. However, I fear she took extreme umbrage over my intervention during the little argument you had with her recently concerning your last lot of expenses. Storm clouds were gathering over the Pare du Champ de Mars. In the end for the sake of peace I had to strike a bargain.’
‘A bargain, Monsieur? I’m afraid I do not entirely understand what you are saying.’
‘The Ty Coz, Aristide, belongs to a distant relative of Madame Grante. She approached me some while ago with a view to its being inspected for inclusion in Le Guide. I said to her that although she could expect no favoured treatment – which, in fairness, she never sought – I would arrange for an early visit. Then, when she heard you were coming to the area she brought the matter up again, knowing she could rely on your judgement and honesty.’
‘The Ty Coz, Monsieur? In Le Guide?’
The Director helped himself to an oursin. ‘You feel it is not “Stock Pot” material, Aristide? I have to say this sea-food platter is beyond reproach.’
‘Not “Stock Pot” material?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse could hardly believe his ears. ‘After my experience the other evening I would not recommend it for an oeuf saucepan – an oeuf saucepan riddled with holes – not even a colander! After the other evening I never want to hear the words La Cuisine Régionale Naturelle again.’
‘Ah!’ The Director visibly brightened. ‘That, Aristide, is one wish you may be sure of being granted.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director. ‘You mentioned a bargain, Monsieur,’ he said slowly.
The Director gave a sigh. ‘The long and the short of it, Aristide, is that there is no such thing as La Cuisine Régionale Naturelle. It was a practical joke on the part of Madame Grante. A figment of her imagination. One which occurred to her soon after she learned you were coming here. She sent word down to her relative and clearly he was only too willing to oblige. You alone were singled out for the so-called cuisine.’
‘And you agreed to it, Monsieur?’ Memories of the expression on Madame Grante’s face the last time he saw her came flooding back; the look of triumph should have been a warning sign. The bitterest pill of all was the thought that the Director had been in on it too!
‘You must understand, Aristide, that I had very little choice. You are not the only one to experience trouble with your P39s. In some ways those working out in the field are fortunate. It is hard to argue with a man who says he needed extra essence for his car so that he could circumnavigate a traffic jam in order to reach a restaurant on time. It is his word against Madame Grante’s. I have no such advantage.
‘Besides, short of committing physical assault on her person in order to retrieve the key, it was the only way I could get my balloon back. And with the Elysée Palace awaiting its return I had no alternative.
‘It does show that deep down Madame Grante is not without a sense of humour. A trifle warped, perhaps. But it is there, nevertheless. All is not lost if she has it in her to concoct practical jokes.’
Warped! It was no more a practical joke than that played by Madame Grante’s mother when she gave birth to her in the first place. It was more a calculated act of revenge. Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to let forth on the subject when there was a rustle of cloth and Mr. Pickering arrived back. He was carrying a salt-cellar.
‘Sorry I was a long time. I went into the Hommes by mistake and had to wait until the coast was clear before I could get out again. All very tedious.
‘That was our Foreign Office on the phone. It seems the airship has now landed safely. A statement is being issued congratulating all concerned and expressing hopes for the future – the usual thing. For the time being there will be no mention of the attempt to blow it up. They will play that side of it by ear. You will be pleased to know that those in charge of catering arrangements are especially singled out for praise. Both food and wine were judged to be beyond reproach.’
The Director raised his glass. ‘I would like to second that, Aristide.’
‘Hear, hear.’ Mr. Pickering joined in the toast. ‘And my own thanks to you both once again for all your help. My men are already on their way home.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse finished off his rillettes and came to a decision. He signalled for the waitress.
‘With your permission, Monsieur, I think I shall change my order.’
‘Does that mean,’ ventured the Director, ‘that you have revised your opinion of the Ty Coz? You think it may be worthy of a mention? A recommendation? A future “Stock Pot”, perhaps?’
‘We shall have to see, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse refused to be drawn. ‘You would not expect Pommes Frites to judge a restaurant on one steak alone.’ He felt an approving movement at his feet.
‘You are the judge, Aristide. It is your taste buds that will have to make the ultimate decision. One must not let personal matters affect the outcome.
‘However, take care when ordering the dessert. I have arranged for a bottle of Château d’Yquem to be made ready – the 1904. It would be a pity to waste it on something mundane.’
A 1904 Château d’Yquem! Monsieur Pamplemousse could hardly believe his ears. What riches! No wonder the Director had trouble with his P39s. It must have cost a small fortune. Suddenly all was forgiven. If it was a case of quid pro quo, then it was worth every centime. Clearly, by his expression, Mr. Pickering felt the same way.
‘I ordered two bottles for the maiden voyage,’ explained the Director. ‘Afterwards it occurred to me that they might not even get through one and it seemed a pity to waste it. Who knows where it would have end
ed up?’
‘Of course, Monsieur. I’m sure Madame Grante will understand.’
‘I hope, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely, ‘that Madame Grante will never know.’
‘Madame Grante again?’ Mr. Pickering pricked up his ears. ‘I feel I almost want to meet her.’
‘It could be arranged,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You could travel back to Paris with me tomorrow.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Mr. Pickering, ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I am arranging for Mrs. Pickering to join me for a few days. The sea air will do her good. It will help blow the cobwebs away.’
He glanced around the dining room. ‘We could do worse than stay here. Eunice would appreciate the décor. Perhaps you could send me some copies of those photographs you took of the old harridan outside the Sanisette. She would appreciate those too.’
It was hard to tell if Mr. Pickering was being serious or not. It was hard to tell a lot of things with Mr. Pickering. The English were trained from an early age not to reveal their true feelings, even when making jokes.
The restaurant was almost empty. Couples with young children had already gone up to their rooms, those without were thinking about it over a final, lingering coffee.
The d’Yquem almost defied description. Rich, fragrant, the colour of old gold, and despite its age, in perfect condition.
At the end of their meal Monsieur Pamplemousse, feeling more replete that he had for a long time, positively awash with good things and with the taste of the Director’s wine still lingering in his mouth, announced his intention of taking Pommes Frites for a last stroll down to the harbour.
The Director and Mr. Pickering said their goodbyes in the foyer, then the Director went up to his room to make a telephone call. ‘You go ahead, Aristide,’ he called. ‘I will catch up with you down at the Port.’
Mr. Pickering hesitated as they made their way out of the hotel. He obviously had something on his mind.
‘I think you will find the girl from the circus much recovered, Aristide,’ he said. ‘I’m told you were worried about her.’