by Michael Bond
Now that Glandier reminded him, Monsieur Pamplemousse remembered it all too well. Half a ferry-boat had gone down with food poisoning.
‘I told you there’d be a third thing,’ said Glandier gloomily as he handed back the paper. ‘But if you ask me this is the third, fourth, fifth and sixth, all rolled into one. So much for computerisation. If that’s what it’s come up with it means the end of civilisation as we know it. Talk about micro-chips with everything! I’m going to get myself a pick-me-up. How about you?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. Folding the paper carefully in two, he placed it in an inside pocket. Much as he would have liked to join Glandier in a drink, or even two, it was as well to keep a clear head.
In a land where the possibilities for earning an award for culinary distinction were endless and the candidates almost without number, a Chinese take-away in Dieppe had to be fairly low on the list of hopefuls. To nominate it for what promised to be France’s premier trophy had to be some kind of joke. It was black humour at its very worst.
Instinct told him that his services were likely to be called for in the not-too-distant future, and when that happened he was going to need every last gramme of stone-cold reasoning he could muster.
2
BYTES AND RAMS
‘Pamplemousse, I hope I never have to live through another day like today.’ The Director screwed up a sheaf of computer paper, tossed it into a nearby waste-paper bin, and then ran his hand through hair already ruffled by previous encounters.
Monsieur Pamplemousse exchanged a glance with the Staff Nurse as she clicked her case shut and made to leave. One look said it all. The Director must have been giving her a hard time. It showed too, in the state of his office. Normally it was like its incumbent, a model of all that was neat and tidy. There was rarely a paper out of place. Flowers stood to attention in their vases. Now it looked as though a hurricane had recently passed through, leaving in its wake a trail of debris picked up en route and then discarded. As for the Director himself, his once immaculately knotted tie hung like a hangman’s noose about his neck, his jacket had fallen to the floor and his face was ashen.
‘May I refill your glass, Monsieur?’ It was a superfluous question. The Director handed it to him automatically, then leaned back in his chair.
‘Help yourself while you’re there. I’m sure you must be in need of one too.’
‘Thank you, Monsieur, but no.’
‘Ah, Aristide, I wish I had your strength of character.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t deny himself the pleasure of the compliment, although it was self-preservation rather than strength of character that dictated his refusal. He’d said no for the same reason that he had denied Glandier’s offer. He wished to keep a clear head. The wisdom of his earlier decision had been confirmed shortly afterwards when he received an urgent but not entirely unexpected summons to the top floor.
He took the Director’s glass and crossed to the drinks cupboard. The interior light was on and a half-empty bottle of Cognac stood on the shelf. Perhaps on second thoughts it was only half-full. Why did the first way of putting it always sound so much worse than the second, and why did one invariably choose the first? He picked it up and looked at the label. It was a Roullet Très Rare Hors d’Age. The Director didn’t stint himself.
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt as if the founder of Le Guide, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, was watching him as he poured a generous helping. Hanging on the wall above the cupboard, it was one of those paintings where the eyes of the subject seem to follow the viewer everywhere. Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t but reflect that their illustrious founder would be turning in his grave if he had only half an inkling of what was going on. No doubt, were he able to see it, his disapproval would also extend to a computer terminal on its dark grey stand to one side of the drinks cabinet. Even the presence alongside the keyboard of Messieurs Cocks et Féret’s tome-like but indispensable 1,800-page compendium of the wines of Bordeaux – Bordeaux et ses Vins – would hardly have put him in a better frame of mind. It seemed to be doing service as a paper-weight.
As Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced up at the painting, he gave a start. Monsieur Duval was now sporting a long black beard reaching almost down to his waist.
‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’
‘You may well ask, Pamplemousse.’ The Director held up a large felt-tipped pen. ‘To rub salt into the wound, whoever was responsible used one of my own implements to perpetrate the deed.’ He dismissed the affair with a wave of his hand. ‘Graffiti can be erased – resetting Le Guide is another matter entirely.’
‘Can the error not be put right, Monsieur? Surely that is the beauty of having everything on a computer …’
The Director gave a groan. ‘Would that were so, Pamplemousse. The engineers have been and gone. There is nothing they can do. It has been completely reprogrammed. They are “looking into it”, and we all know what that means.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to the Director’s desk and handed him the glass. The Director swallowed the contents in one go. Clearly he was in a bad way. ‘Pamplemousse … ask me who won the silver award.’
‘Who won the silver award, Monsieur?’
‘The Restaurant de la Gare in Mougins!’
‘The Restaurant de la Gare in Mougins? But that is crazy! For a start there is no Gare in Mougins. There isn’t even a railway in Mougins. The nearest Gare is at Cannes.’
‘I know, Aristide. I know. There is no need to remind me.’
‘And what about the Moulin de Mougins, Monsieur? That is one of France’s premier restaurants. It has boasted three Stock Pots for as long as I can remember. Why …’
‘According to our entry it has been relegated to a mere bar stool – the symbol we have always reserved for those wayside cafés where one is assured of a good snack. Even worse, there is an additional note saying, “They should try harder.” Vergé will be livid. He will undoubtedly seek legal advice.’
‘And the bronze Stock Pot lid?’
‘It has gone to our own canteen. Much as I like to encourage them in their endeavours, it makes a mockery of the whole thing. Apart from which it savours of nepotism.’
‘And the rest of the book, Monsieur?’
‘Désastre!’ The Director reached down, picked up a seemingly never-ending length of computer print-out material and allowed it to slide through his fingers to the floor. ‘Le Guide is riddled from beginning to end with entries which are such a travesty of all they are meant to convey they are positively obscene; the Tour d’Argent is slated for the quality of its duck, Pic for his miserly portions, Chapel for being over-addicted to the cruet … Need I continue?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. He could see now why the Director was in such a state. The last time he’d had a meal at Pic he hadn’t wanted to eat for days afterwards, and he’d once been present at Chapel when some other diners – a group of tourists – had asked for the salt. They had been shown the door immediately. Le Guide prided itself on the accuracy of its entries; the finding of a single misprint was spoken of in hushed tones for days afterwards. When it happened, which was rarely, heads were apt to roll; annual increments were set at risk. But blatant misinformation was something else again. It didn’t bear thinking about. The only consolation was that the master disk hadn’t gone to the printers. The thought triggered off another.
‘I hesitate to mention it, Monsieur, but surely there must be a copy of the original somewhere – a duplicate?’
‘Pamplemousse …’ the Director gestured towards a pile of paper on the floor, ‘you are looking at the print-out from the copy. It is the same as the original. That was the first thing I thought of. As you well know, Le Guide has always believed in a belt and braces approach to matters of importance. Unfortunately, we failed to make a copy of the copy. Whoever perpetrated this outrage left no stone unturned.’
‘And how about insurance, Monsieur?’
‘You cannot insure against loss
of confidence, Aristide. No policy in the world will cover that.’
The Director rose from his desk and crossed to the doors leading to his balcony. He opened them and went outside. For a moment or two he stood leaning over the parapet, gazing into space. Fearing the worst, Monsieur Pamplemousse hurried out to join him. Beyond the Seine, the late afternoon sun broke through a gap in the clouds and momentarily illuminated the dome of the Sacré-Coeur; to their left the Eiffel Tower cast its long shadow over the surrounding houses; to their right there were men playing Boules on the gravelled perimeter of the Parc du Champ-de-Mars. Each in its own way was a symbol of the unchanging pattern of life; both a solace and sharp reminder of their own precarious situation. The Director must have felt it too, for as he turned away he gave a little shiver.
‘Never, not once in its history, Aristide, has Le Guide been late for publication. It must not, indeed will not happen now. I have been in consultation with the printers and the very latest they can hold the presses and still meet our deadline is next Friday – three days from now. It means you will need to work fast. I shall prepare a statement for the media in case the worst happens, but I trust that with your help we shall not need it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. It hadn’t occurred to him that the Director wanted to see him for anything more than some passing advice. The name of the right person to contact in the Sûreté, perhaps; an expert in what was known as ‘hacking’, for clearly they were dealing not just with a simple fault of programming, but rather an act of deliberate sabotage.
‘Surely, Monsieur, this is a matter for the police? I know nothing about computers.’
‘The police!’ The Director gazed at him in horror. ‘The police are the last people I wish to involve, Pamplemousse. As you must know only too well, if we bring in the police word is bound to get out. With all due respect to your past profession, I doubt very much if they are equipped to deal with this kind of situation; they are bound to seek outside advice and the more people who know the harder it will be to maintain secrecy. Someone will drop a hint to the wrong person and once the story is out reporters will descend on us again like a flock of vultures. You saw what happened this morning. They will not rest until our collective bones have been picked clean. We shall be the laughing stock of the culinary world. Le Guide’s credibility will be destroyed forever.’
‘But, Monsieur …’
His protestations fell on deaf ears. The Director dismissed them with a wave of the hand. ‘I do not wish to hear another word, Aristide. For whatever reason, someone has embarked on a policy clearly aimed at the destruction of Le Guide. The acts already carried out – the piranha fish in the fountain, that ridiculous announcement in today’s journal about my demise, the beard now adorning the face of our founder – were but warning salvoes. Were he – or she – to be successful in their endeavours, then ruination will stare us all in the face. It is a matter for the Security Officer.’
‘Ah, I had not realised we have a Security Officer.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to keep the note of relief from his voice. For a brief moment he had feared the worst.
‘We have now, Pamplemousse.’ The Director looked him straight in the eye. ‘All the resources of Le Guide will be at your disposal. Money will be no object. You may name your own fee.’
‘It is not a question of money, Monsieur …’
‘Good, Aristide. Then I will not embarrass you by raising the subject ever again. I knew I could count on your loyalty. It is only a temporary appointment, of course. Once we have surmounted the present problem we shall take steps to regularise the situation, but time is not on our side.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at his chief. There were times when his ability to take things for granted and ride roughshod over people’s sensibilities was positively beyond belief. It would have been nice to have had the matter raised just once more; an opportunity to protest a trifle less vehemently on the subject of his remuneration would not have come amiss. But the moment was lost forever. Perhaps reading his thoughts, the Director turned on his heels and went back inside.
Almost as though it were in sympathy, the sun disappeared again. Monsieur Pamplemousse took one last look over the parapet. Paris suddenly seemed to have grown in size.
What was the population of the greater area of the city at the last count? Something over ten million people. And he would be looking for perhaps just one person in all that number – it was hard to picture a whole group waging a vendetta against Le Guide.
Despite his protestations, his mind was already racing with thoughts and ideas. The Director was right. Speed and secrecy were both of paramount importance. If the news did leak out they would be done for. He must get on to Glandier straight away – together with anyone else who might have seen the print-out – and impress that fact on them.
Next, he would need to know who’d had access to the computer. Was it remotely possible for it to have been an outside job? If it wasn’t, then it would make his task that much easier. If it was, then he hardly knew where to start. One thing was certain: he would need to take a crash course to end all crash courses on the subject before he could even begin to ask the right questions, let alone understand the answers.
‘Well, Aristide?’ The Director looked up from his desk as Monsieur Pamplemousse entered the room.
‘Tell me about the computer, Monsieur.’
‘Ah, yes, the computer.’ A slightly glazed expression entered the Director’s eyes. ‘I have to confess that once the decision was made to commit Le Guide to what I believe are known as “les disques” a term which put me in mind of a salle de danse when I first heard it used, and once a suitable model had been chosen – if I remember correctly, it is a Poulanc DB23, the 457 version, if that means anything to you – I left the matter very much in the hands of the experts.’
‘Do you know what language it speaks, Monsieur?’ Grabbing at straws, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to make it sound as though he knew what he was talking about.
The Director gave a snort. ‘An alien language, Pamplemousse. One which is totally beyond my comprehension. It is, I believe, largely a question of “bytes” and “rams”, neither of which are terms I even remotely begin to understand, nor do I wish to. Life is complicated enough as it is without such esoteric subdivisions.’
‘I was really thinking of security, Monsieur. How, par exemple, could the computer have been made to produce a print-out which is so full of inaccuracies? At this moment it isn’t so much a matter of knowing who did it, but rather how it was done. If we know the answer to the last question it may provide us with an answer to the first.’
‘Ah, there you have me, Pamplemousse. There you have me. At my insistence security is as perfect as what I believe they somewhat prosaically call “the state of the art” can make it.’
‘With respect, Monsieur, security is usually only as good as the people who operate it.’
‘True, Pamplemousse, true. However, in this case you are dealing with a situation where information relating to the new issue of Le Guide can only be accessed provided the correct code-word is used. A code-word which is changed on a daily basis and is known to but two people, myself included.’
‘And the other person, Monsieur? May I know who it is?’
‘It is Madame Grante. In the fullness of time we plan to extend the range of the machine to include all our accounting procedures. Naturally this will take time, but …’
‘How did she take to the thought of being computerised, Monsieur?’
The Director raised his hands. ‘Understandably, she was not wildly enthusiastic at first. People, particularly of Madame Grante’s age and disposition, are resistant to change. But gradually she came round to seeing our point of view – particularly when she began to realise the very positive advantages it would have. Information which would normally take her weeks to collate will be at her fingertips by the mere pressing of a button. P39s will no longer pile up in her pending tray. It was largely because I
needed her goodwill that I brought her into the project at an early stage rather than confront her with it later as a fait accompli. The interesting thing is that once she accepted the idea she seemed to take to it like a canard to water. She has been working overtime every night for the last few months, mastering the new techniques. I shudder to think what the wages bill would have been otherwise. It would not be too much to say that she has become a changed person; it has obviously been a challenge to her and she has gained a new lease of life. It was because of that I entrusted her with entering the names of all those who have qualified for Stock Pot status in this year’s guide.’
‘You will not object if I question her, Monsieur?’
The Director eyed him nervously. ‘Of course not, Pamplemousse. As I said earlier, you have carte blanche. In fact,’ he reached for a telephone, ‘I will ask my secretary to have her come up straight away. It will be as well if she knows you have my full approval.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse waited patiently, listening to what appeared to be a somewhat one-sided conversation. His end of it was made up of a series of monosyllabic replies which grew steadily less assured with every passing moment. He suspected he knew the reason why. At long last the Director put the phone down. He looked worried.
‘Apparently she didn’t come to work today. She left early yesterday afternoon in order to visit the hairdresser and hasn’t been seen or heard of since.’
‘Perhaps she wanted to look her best for today’s ceremony, Monsieur. Something may have happened since then.’
‘That is true.’ The Director didn’t look entirely convinced. ‘However, it doesn’t explain why she has not been in touch. It is most unlike her.’
They both sat in silence for a moment or two.
‘What are you thinking, Pamplemousse?’