by Michael Bond
‘I was thinking I would still like to see her, Monsieur.’
‘I meant, what are you really thinking? You surely don’t suspect anything untoward on her part. Madame Grante may have her faults, but I would stake my life on her integrity.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse spread his hands out, palms uppermost. ‘At this stage, Monsieur, I suspect nothing and no one. I have an open mind. Nevertheless, given the circumstances, it does seem strange that she should be absent today of all days.’
If he’d given voice to his innermost thoughts it wasn’t so much the possibility of Madame Grante doing anything untoward – he agreed with the Director, she was a model of rectitude – rather that something untoward might have happened to her. An accident on the way home from the office, a fall; they were just two possibilities. He didn’t dare mention a third that had occurred to him. Instead, he chose another one at random.
‘You say she is a changed woman, Monsieur. Perhaps it is not the computer at all. Perhaps she has a lover.’
The Director eyed him dubiously. ‘Is that possible, Pamplemousse? A flight of fancy, surely?’
‘He could be a masochist, Monsieur. During my time in the force I met many such men. Men who like nothing better than to be constantly punished.’
The Director fell silent for a moment, lost in thought. ‘I must admit to having noticed that she has also changed her mode of dress of late. Her skirts have definitely been getting shorter and she has started wearing make-up.’
‘All women are the victims of fashion, Monsieur. Madame Pamplemousse is always grumbling because the fashions are not what she wants.’
‘My secretary also tells me Madame Grante was heard singing a selection from “Bless the Bride” recently. Apparently it was all round the office.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse began to wish he hadn’t brought up the subject. It had only been meant as a joke. A rather poor one at that.
‘I think, before I do anything else, Monsieur, I should go and see her. If you could let me have her address.’
The Director picked up his telephone again. ‘I will ask my secretary. I know it is somewhere on the right bank.’ He had the grace to look slightly shame-faced. ‘I should know, of course.’
It was, in fact, typical of Madame Grante that the Director didn’t know. Monsieur Pamplemousse had no idea either. Occasionally on his way to the office by autobus he’d seen her coming along the Rue Saint-Dominique, but he’d always immediately looked the other way rather than risk having to walk to the office with her. Conversation with Madame Grante wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, especially first thing in the morning. It was usually confined to mundane matters like expenses. Anything else was likely to be frowned on. Enquiries into her personal life were treated with suspicion, almost like attempted rape.
‘Merci.’ The Director reached for his pad, jotted down a number, then tore off the top sheet. He turned to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘She has an apartment in the Rue des Renaudes in the seventeenth arrondissement.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse rose to his feet. ‘I will go straight away, Monsieur.’ He doubted if he would learn much more from Madame Grante than he had from the Director, but at least she would have a working knowledge of the computer. Anyway it was a case of first things first and he suddenly wanted to be on the move.
The Director looked less than enthusiastic. ‘You could be wasting your time, Pamplemousse. Apparently Véronique – who, by the way, is the only other person who knows what has happened – has tried more than once to telephone her, but each time there has been no reply.’
‘I have to begin somewhere, Monsieur.’
The Director gave a sigh. ‘Ah, well, if you must you must. But remember, we have less than a week to go before publication. Each and every hour of the day is precious. In the meantime, while you are gone I shall put a team of girls from the typing pool to work on recompiling Le Guide. They will be fighting a losing battle, I fear, but it will be something to fall back on if need be. I shall also tighten security. The whole building will be put on alerte rouge. As from tomorrow no one will be allowed in or out without production of a pass and positive means of identification.’
‘That sounds sensible.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t but feel that it was a case of locking the stable door after the horse had bolted. He looked at the Director speculatively. Mention of there being less than a week to go before publication had reminded him of Doucette’s comment during petit déjeuner when she had read the item in the journal. He wondered if the Director had noticed the misprint too. Correction: for the first time he found himself wondering if it really had been a misprint, or whether the wrong date had some deeper significance. He decided not to mention the matter, at least for the time being. The Director had enough worries on his mind.
Instead, he excused himself and was about to make his way into the outer office when the Director called him back.
‘Pamplemousse, I shall be grateful if you would remove that ridiculous object from Pommes Frites’ collar. I appreciate the thought, but I scarcely need a walking reminder of how black the situation is.’
‘Of course, Monsieur.’ The truth of the matter was that what with one thing and another Monsieur Pamplemousse had totally forgotten Pommes Frites had also gone into mourning.
Anticipating his wishes, the Director’s secretary had a map of Paris open on her desk. ‘Madame Grante’s apartment is near the Place des Ternes. Would you like me to call a taxi?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘I will find my own way there.’ He consulted another map in his diary. Travelling by Métro would involve changing trains twice, a tedious business in the rush hour. Madame Grante probably only did it on rainy days. More than likely she normally caught the 92 autobus in the Avenue Bosquet and got off in the Avenue Niel. It would be nice to do the same; a way of easing himself gradually into her way of life.
He glanced down. Taking his friend and mentor along as well would be out of the question. Rules and regulations forbade it. There was no way he could squeeze Pommes Frites into a travelling box no larger than 21cm by 10cm, still less carry it if he did. Once upon a time he could have travelled like any other normal passenger, but nowadays there was no way he would be allowed on board. Any argument and the driver would reach for the telephone beside his left ear and call headquarters. Perhaps they should take their chance on the Métro after all and hope they didn’t encounter one of the roving bands of ticket Inspectors. Either that or accept the offer of a taxi, but what he wanted most at that moment was space, and time to think.
‘Permettez-moi?’ He picked up the telephone and dialled an outside number.
His call was answered almost immediately.
‘Jacques, Aristide here …’ The first few questions confirmed the Director’s fears. Computer crime was an area where the rapid advance in technology far outstripped the means of combating it, at least as far as the police were concerned. Help was available but it wouldn’t be immediate – it was mainly left to the Fraud Squad and they were understaffed and overworked. In any case it was a situation where the law itself was even further behind. Obtaining a conviction in a case involving computer crime was fraught with difficulties. Attempting it was often a waste of time and manpower.
Monsieur Pamplemousse listened patiently. Although it wasn’t entirely unexpected, it wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear either. When he mentioned the time scale there was a hollow laugh.
‘OK. Have you any other ideas then?’
‘Un moment.’ There was a pause while names were thrown around. Eventually Jacques came back to him. ‘I’m told there is someone in Passy … name of Borel.’
‘Could you make an appointment for me?’
‘When?’
‘This evening if possible.’ He looked at his watch. It showed 16.30. ‘Say, 18.30-19.00 hrs. Before dîner. Tell them it is urgent.’
‘D’accord. I’ll hold on.’ While he was waiting Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at the map on the
desk. The Rue des Renaudes wasn’t that far. Three-quarters of an hour at the most. The walk would do them both good.
‘Merci. Vous êtes un copain.’ He put the receiver down at long last. He may have drawn a blank with help from his old department in the Sûreté, but at least the call had gained him an appointment with a ‘consultant’ who could be trusted. It was better than nothing.
He dialled his home number.
‘Couscous. I fear I shall be home late.
‘No. Something has come up. I am needed here …
‘… it is not possible to say at present.
‘Why don’t you go and stay with Agathe?
‘Good. I will see you when I see you.
‘Au revoir, chérie. Take care.’
He replaced the receiver. Doucette had sounded resigned. How many times had they had the same conversation in his days with the Sûreté? He had lost count. Her sister in Melun had always been the chief beneficiary of his enforced absences.
‘If you are taking Pommes Frites with you,’ said Véronique, ‘I should make sure he wipes his paws before he goes in. You know what Madame Grante is like.’
‘Poof!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse blew her a kiss. She caught it expertly and put it in a desk drawer for safe keeping. ‘Call me if you have any news or if you need anything.’
He paused outside the door, then headed, not towards the main lift, but to a smaller one at the far end of the corridor. He had one more call to make before he left the building.
Madame Grante’s secretary was new, which wasn’t unduly surprising. Madame Grante got through secretaries rather quicker than most people got through writing out their expenses sheets. It would be interesting to see if the new computer stayed the course. Perhaps the current trouble was a forewarning of things to come, the electronic equivalent of a cry for help.
Madame Grante’s secretary was not only new, she was less than helpful. Monsieur Pamplemousse had the feeling that the boss’s absence was the best thing that had happened to the Accounts Department that week.
No, she had no idea why Madame Grante hadn’t turned up for work. Madame Grante didn’t confide in her. Sniff.
No, she hadn’t noticed anything different about the way Madame Grante had been behaving. She hadn’t been working at Le Guide long enough to know. Sniff. Sniff.
She didn’t actually say that she wouldn’t be staying long enough to find out, but the underlying message was there, loud and clear.
Monsieur Pamplemousse took his leave. On the way down the corridor he tried the door of the new computer room. It was locked. He had been in there once – soon after it had been installed. At the time he had found it somewhat disappointing: windowless, air-conditioned and antiseptic. Even the sheer lack of size of the machine itself, standing in splendid isolation in the centre of the floor, had been a bit of a disappointment. Given the fact that one way and another it was destined to control all their working lives he would have preferred something larger, something with more wires and with glass panels he could look through in order to see what was going on inside. It was so neat and unassuming it was almost as sinister as the clicks and grunts it emitted randomly from time to time.
Apart from the computer and its associated equipment – keyboards, visual display units, and some racks containing storage disks and other items, there had, in fact, been surprisingly little to see. All the same, he would have liked to have gone inside the room again, if only to refresh his memory.
Acting on an impulse he went back to Madame Grante’s department. The girl was on the telephone and she didn’t look overpleased to see him.
‘Do you have the key to the computer room?’
She shook her head, then put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘You could try looking in Madame Grante’s desk if you like.’ She nodded towards an open door leading to the inner sanctum. ‘She keeps a few spare keys there. If it’s around at all it will be in the top drawer on the right. Otherwise they’re probably all in her handbag.’
Conscious that he was being watched, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried the desk drawer. It was locked. He pulled at the others one by one, instinctively preparing himself to jump back should Madame Grante happen to appear unexpectedly. They were all locked. He was tempted to try his own keys on them, but he wasn’t sure how the girl would take it.
There was a computer terminal near by. The keyboard and screen were both neatly concealed beneath grey plastic covers. He tried the one drawer below the table top. That, too, was locked.
He thanked the girl and left. As he closed the door behind him he heard her voice. ‘Sorry about that. Now, about tonight …’
Pommes Frites, glad to be out in the fresh air again, set a brisk pace and they reached the Pont de l’Alma in under ten minutes. A heavily laden barge pushing two others swept past, helped on its way by the fast-moving current. He caught a glimpse of the skipper concentrating on the view ahead before it disappeared under one of the arches. The quais which a few weeks before had been under water were now almost clear. Traffic was on the move again on the through-roads and the Vedettes moored further upstream were floodlit. He leaned over the parapet and looked down at the statue of the zouave – the French Algerian soldier who for generations had helped passing Parisians gauge the height of the Seine. His boots were now clear of the muddied waters. Bits of debris stuck to the plinth.
There was no doubt in his mind that despite all its many benefits the computer could also be a disruptive influence. For better or for worse it upset the balance of things. Get on the wrong side of one and you were in trouble. The thought of having his P39s committed to a plastic disque, available for instant analysis and comparison with previous entries, was hard to contemplate.
Much as one grumbled about having to indulge in arguments with Madame Grante on the subject of expenses, there was no denying the pleasure of an occasional battle won – it more than made up for all the lost ones. It wouldn’t be the same thing at all with a computer.
The Inspector who used his car for a Saturday shopping trip would feel very hard done by if on Monday morning the computer deleted the mileage from his work sheet.
On the other hand, there was no good fighting it. It was here to stay. Some years before, if they had chosen to do so, he and Doucette could have had one of the Minitel terminals France Télécom distributed free on request to all their subscribers. Originally intended to replace the telephone directory, they were now used for all manner of things. Banks, the Stock Exchange, purveyors of junk mail. If you were doing a personalised mail-shot to local plumbers, it was possible to select all the men in a town of your choice whose first name was Jean. On the other side of the coin, it was said that a growing number of subscribers dialled 36 15 in order to work out their erotic fantasies via messageries roses. Others used the system to order their groceries. He couldn’t picture Doucette doing her shopping that way. The chief beneficiaries were Télécom, who were making a fortune out of the phone calls, and the program makers.
From the Pont de l’Alma to the Etoile took Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites fifteen minutes. From the Etoile down the Avenue de Wagram less than another ten – he’d forgotten how much of a downhill slope there was. He hadn’t been far out in his calculations. The market in the Rue Poncelet was alive and bustling. He used to shop there at one time and still occasionally bought the Christmas ham in Aux Fermes d’Auvergne. No doubt it was where Madame Grante did all her food shopping; there would be no point in going further afield.
Madame Grante’s apartment was in an anonymous row of stone-clad seven-floored buildings whose uniformly vertical façades reflected the strict rules first laid down by Baron Haussmann. The architect’s name was engraved in a stone high up on the wall alongside a date – 1906.
The large wooden door – normally opened by a key-operated lock – was standing ajar. On the wall just inside there was an array of entryphone buttons. He ran his finger down the list of names. Madame Grante’s apartment was on the fourth floor. He p
ressed a button opposite her name and waited. On the other side of a glass-panelled door he could see an antiquated lift, hardly big enough for more than two people at a time.
While he was waiting, a man came in from the street, checked his mail in a row of boxes on the opposite wall, then opened the inner door. He looked at them enquiringly. The combination of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s dark suit and Pommes Frites’ august presence must have lent an air of respectability, for he stood to one side and held the door open for them.
‘Monsieur …’
‘Merci, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse took advantage of the offer. He had a feeling he wasn’t about to get anywhere with the entryphone.
On the grounds that the exercise would do him good, he made for the stairs. It saved concocting a story. Half-way up he passed a room where someone was playing a saxophone. He was no Charlie Parker.
Madame Grante’s apartment was one of two which ran the width of the building. He rang the bell and waited, but again there was no reply and he was about to leave when he heard a strange scuffling noise. Putting his ear to the door Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he detected the sound of a movement on the other side – the rustle of a gown, perhaps; it was hard to place. It was followed by what sounded like a voice in the distance, but it was impossible to make out the words. He tried pressing the bell-push a second time – the response was loud and clear – but the sound died away to nothing.
Taking out his notepad and pen, he scribbled a brief message saying he had called and asking Madame Grante to contact the office as soon as possible. Tearing the sheet of paper from its pad, he bent down and tried to slip it through the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. It met with resistance half-way through, probably from a mat, leaving a small corner protruding into the corridor.
He crouched down on his hands and knees in an attempt to push the paper through even further, and as he did so he heard the rustling noise again, only louder this time. A moment later there was a tug and the paper was wrenched from his fingers. Pommes Frites made a dive, but he wasn’t quick enough.