by Michael Bond
There was a chance – a very slender chance – that if she did keep spare keys in her desk drawer he might find a duplicate set for her apartment. It was worth a try.
4
A WAITING GAME
By the time Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites arrived at Le Guide’s headquarters the gatekeeper had already gone off duty – he was probably holding court in the nearest bar, giving his version of the day’s events. Using his entry card, Monsieur Pamplemousse let himself in and as they crossed the courtyard he glanced up towards the top floor. A light was on in the Director’s office. There were lights coming from the second floor as well. It looked as though the occupants of the typing pool were working late. If the Director had his way they would probably be up all night.
A portable cabin containing a machine for taking passport-size photographs was standing near the main entrance. The issuing of special passes must have got under way soon after he’d left. It was closed for the night.
Unaware of the mental struggle his master had gone through earlier in the evening when he had turned down the offer of pot-au-feu, Pommes Frites was wearing his ‘I am only a mere dog, mine is not to reason why – just lead the way and I’ll follow on behind’ look. It was a mixture of resignation – eyebrows slightly raised, mouth compressed, eyes focused on an imaginary horizon – and total lack of comprehension. As far as Pommes Frites was concerned, life was a simple matter of priorities. In an ideal world one should always know where one’s priorities lay. The fact that for much of the time life was far from ideal was beside the point. The world was how you made it. Opportunities needed to be seized when they came your way, and although normally he would have stuck up for his master through thick and thin, sadly, on this occasion he was of the opinion that a golden opportunity had been passed up, perhaps never to return.
Ever hopeful, anticipating that amends were about to be made, Pommes Frites licked his lips as they entered the building. His euphoria was short-lived. Never one to be wreathed in smiles, he began to look even more woe begone as he followed Monsieur Pamplemousse along a route which took them not, as he had hoped, towards the canteen, the smell from which was already titillating his sensitive nostrils, but in the direction of the Accounts Department.
An air of Stygian gloom pervaded the corridors. The few people they encountered on the way spoke in whispers and barely acknowledged their presence.
When Monsieur Pamplemousse reached his destination, he opened the door to Madame Grante’s outer office and peered inside. The lights were still on, but there was no sign of the new secretary. The coat rack was empty. No doubt she had another, more pressing engagement.
Closing the door behind them, he let himself into the inner office, mentally crossing his fingers and raising his eyes towards the ceiling as he did so.
It proved an unnecessary invocation to Saint Peter. Not only did his own key fit the one on Madame Grante’s desk, which wasn’t unduly surprising – they were all of a standard pattern and were meant to protect minor personal belongings for brief periods rather than to safeguard anything of great value – but when he opened the drawer he found the inside as neatly compartmented as the mind of its user. Pens and pencils were arranged in boxes. Paper-clips, elastic bands, a ruler, an eraser, all had their allotted place; and there, in an unmarked envelope beneath a grey lift-out plastic tray, was a set of door keys, including one which was obviously meant for the outer door to an apartment block. There was no sign of any other keys.
He was about to push the drawer shut when he noticed it felt unusually weighty. Pulling it out to its fullest extent he discovered the reason. Behind more rows of plastic containers was another copy of Cocks et Féret. It was the same edition as the one he had seen in the Director’s office. He flipped through it. There were enough entries to provide a lifetime of code-words.
Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the telephone receiver, called up an outside line, and dialled Mademoiselle Borel’s number. It was either engaged or it was off the hook. Perhaps she was already hard at work trying to break into Le Guide’s computer just along the corridor – or perhaps she was simply enjoying her pot-au-feu in peace and quiet.
Hearing the sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor he hastily shut the drawer, locked it, and was round the other side of the desk just as the night porter opened the outer door.
‘Monsieur Pamplemousse. Bonsoir. Madame Grante is not working late tonight?’
‘Apparently not. I can’t find her anywhere.’ The man looked totally unperturbed at their presence. As he turned to go, Monsieur Pamplemousse had a sudden thought. ‘Were you on duty last night?’
‘Oui, Monsieur.’
‘Do you happen to know what time Madame Grante left?’
‘The first or the second time, Monsieur?’
‘You mean … she came back?’
‘Oui, Monsieur Pamplemousse. I was only talking about it with my colleague just now. He saw her leave early in the afternoon – about four o’clock. He remembered it because it was so unusual – especially as she has been working late for the last few weeks. But then I was assuming she must have come back, because when her brother called for her as usual …’
‘Her brother?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to conceal his surprise.
The porter gave a hollow laugh. ‘That is what she liked to call him. If he is her brother, my uncle is a rosbif.’ He used the slang term for an Englishman. ‘Anyway, she must already have left when he came.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About nine thirty. It is in the book. I rang through but there was no answer. Then he went to look for her and he came back empty-handed.’
‘You let him go and look for her? By himself?’
‘Oui, Monsieur.’ The man began to look worried. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have, but you know what Madame Grante is like. Besides, it wasn’t as if it was the first time he’d been here.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He is about the same height as Madame Grante. A little younger, perhaps. Fairly heavily built. Well dressed – he usually wears a hat and gloves. I would say he is from the Midi. Perhaps the Rhône Valley by his accent, although he could be a Corsican. He looks a little like a …’ he hesitated.
‘Go on?’
The man looked embarrassed. ‘I would not like Madame Grante to hear me say it … but he looks like un maquereau … a pimp. I would not trust him with my daughter, that’s for sure. Or my grandmother come to that!’
‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’
‘Oui, Monsieur. As I say, he has been here many times over the past few weeks. That is why I let him in.’
‘And what name did he sign in the book?’
‘Why, Grante of course, Monsieur.’
‘Of course,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily. ‘I’d forgotten. He is her brother.’
It was dark when they left the building. There was a faint drizzle in the air, so he headed up the Rue Fabert towards the taxi rank in the Place de Santiago-du-Chili.
For the first time that day he felt as though he was beginning to get somewhere. There was a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. It was only a very faint glimmer, and it could turn out to be an extremely long tunnel, but it was there nevertheless.
What had been said as a joke had turned out to be a distinct possibility. Perhaps Madame Grante had an ‘homme’ after all. And in the circumstances, if Madame Grante had an ‘homme’ then one way or another it was high time they were introduced, particularly if the porter’s summing up was anything to go by.
The taxi driver took practically the same route they had walked earlier that evening, crossing the Seine by the Pont de l’Alma and then up the Avenue Marceau. Searchlights were now raking the sky above the quai to their right as the evening bateaux-mouches got ready to leave. Very soon the passengers would be dining to a running commentary on the history of Paris in four languages. The cafés in the Place were starting to fill.
It was strange how often life suddenly took an unexpected turn so that, within the space of a few hours, areas one hardly ever visited became a part of the daily round, rapidly becoming as familiar as the street in which one lived.
Leaving his master to his own thoughts and devices, Pommes Frites curled up beside him on the back seat and closed his eyes. He would await the call of duty, but until it came there was no sense in wasting energy needlessly.
As a precautionary measure Monsieur Pamplemousse stopped the taxi short of the Rue des Renaudes and set out to walk the rest of the way to Madame Grante’s apartment. He wasn’t at all sure what he expected to find when he got there, if indeed he found anything. The whole thing could turn out to be a wild-goose chase. She might well be home by now, safely ensconced in an armchair watching television. Or if she wasn’t, there could be an entirely simple reason for her absence – the sudden death of a relative perhaps, an illness … And yet in his heart of hearts he knew none of those things rang true. Madame Grante was a creature of habit, meticulous in all matters to do with work – such behaviour would be totally out of character. And yet, and yet wasn’t the whole business of her evening visitor out of character? During his years with the Sûreté he’d come across many occasions when, for one reason or another, people had done things totally out of character. The one thing he had learned from his experiences was never to take the behaviour of any human being for granted. His pace slowed as they covered the remaining hundred metres or so and he felt in his pocket for the keys.
Outside the block he looked first one way and then the other. The street was deserted.
Applying the largest of the three keys to the lock, Monsieur Pamplemousse opened the outer door. The light inside the entrance hall was on. He checked the postal boxes – Madame Grante’s still hadn’t been emptied. There was an illuminated minuterie button alongside the glass-panelled inner door and as he pressed it another light came on above the lift. He tried out the Yale-type keys. The second one slid home. He held on to the first key, noting for future reference that it was the longer one of the two and by rights ought to fit the upstairs door. He took the lift this time, squeezing in alongside Pommes Frites. The only sound came from the lift motors. Even the budding saxophonist on the second floor had stopped playing.
He pressed the bell-push outside Madame Grante’s apartment twice, but there was still no sound of movement. Slipping the key into the lock, he turned it gently and the door swung open to his touch, revealing a small hall. Another door on the far side stood half open and what little light there was came from a larger room beyond. He called out, but there was no response. The only sound came from the ticking of a clock somewhere nearby.
Feeling along the wall to his left, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s hand made contact with a switch. As the light came on he motioned Pommes Frites to follow him in, then closed the outer door behind them and slipped the safety catch across. He had no wish to have Madame Grante return unexpectedly and mistake him for a burglar.
The living-room was much as he would have expected it to be, although after his mistake with Mademoiselle Borel he wouldn’t have stuck his neck out and laid bets on it. The furniture was large and solid, old without having acquired the status of being classed as antique, although time would rectify that. It had been made in the days when oak meant what it said, not chipboard covered with the thinnest of veneers. The atmosphere felt dry and airless as though the windows had been kept shut for a long time. He registered the fact because in the office Madame Grante had a reputation for being something of a fresh-air fiend.
A large sideboard stood against one wall. The top of it was covered with framed photographs. He scanned them briefly. They were nearly all old prints, most of them in sepia. There was certainly no one remotely like the description the porter had given of Madame Grante’s ‘brother’. The centre-piece, in a large silver frame, showed a man in pre-war army officer’s uniform. He was posing proudly beside a section of the old Maginot Line. An inscription written across the bottom half of the photograph in small, neat handwriting said: ‘To Violaine, with love. Papa.’ Below the words there was a single kiss. Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if her father had survived the war. Madame Grante never spoke of her family. Alongside it was another photograph which he assumed was of her mother. It was a strong face; not someone who would have stood any nonsense. She must also have been quite a beauty in her time.
‘Violaine.’ He had never heard Madame Grante called by her Christian name, and he doubted if many others had either. He certainly wouldn’t have dared to ask.
On the wall there were a number of old paintings of no great interest, but doubtless each had a story to tell. Amongst them was a framed certificate of competence from a school of accountancy. There was the name again – Violaine Grante.
An inlaid sewing table occupied one corner, a small bonheur-du-jour bureau another. Alongside it was an old Edison cabinet gramophone with a wind-up motor. Monsieur Pamplemousse opened it and looked inside. The records were all in their original sleeves; mostly artists from the early Forties. Beside them was a small tin of steel needles.
The heavy mantelpiece supported a large clock made of gilt brass inlaid with decorated porcelain panels. Flanking it were a pair of matching side urns.
In the centre of the room there was an oblong polished mahogany table protected by a crocheted runner. On it stood a bowl of freesias which had been freshly watered. Their perfume was almost overpowering.
Some french windows leading onto a balcony were shut, as were all the other windows. He peered through the glass. The balcony ran the full width of the apartment, connecting with what must be the bedroom. At the far end on the right there was a low steel door, pock-marked with rust, which led to a fire escape. It must have been installed in the days when burglary was less of a problem, for although it was bolted on the inside, anyone with half a mind could have climbed round easily enough. Shielding his eyes from the light in the room he dimly made out the shape of a few trees in the area below; probably part of a communal garden jointly owned with those who lived in the surrounding buildings. It was starting to rain again.
In an alcove between the fireplace and the window there was a row of bookshelves. Monsieur Pamplemousse turned on a standard lamp and ran his eye along the titles. Victor Hugo, Balzac, some old school prizes, the complete works of Racine, Proust, a set of encyclopaedias; there wasn’t much to choose from if you felt like a good laugh. Standing out like a sore thumb was a recent edition of a cookery book by Bocuse – put to a certain amount of use already by the look of the pages, some of which had been singled out with a strip of paper.
The top shelf was occupied by copies of Le Guide. The earlier ones must be collector’s items, for they dated back to when Madame Grante first joined.
Idly he reached up and removed the first one. It was for 1960. Le Guide had gained weight since then. Fewer restaurants had been covered in those days for a start. All the same – he skimmed through the pages; it was amazing how many entries hadn’t changed, particularly outside Paris. There were fewer symbols. The reports weren’t quite so long. Their founder hadn’t believed in wasting words.
The Director must have been an Inspector in those days. He had been brought in by Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, by then in his nineties, unmarried and childless, to be groomed for stardom as it were. Also, according to Loudier, the doyen of the Inspectors, a certain degree of nepotism had been involved. ‘Family connections’, he was apt to say in his dry way. But that was probably a case of provincial jealousy.
All the same, by any standards the Director had done well. Under his leadership Le Guide had flourished. How terrible it would be if its downfall was at hand.
But it wasn’t just the future of Le Guide that was at stake. It was the Director too. And why the Director? Was he simply a prime target because of his position? Or was there some other reason?
On one of the lower shelves, level with an old leather armchair, Monsieur Pamplemousse ca
me across what he had been looking for: a copy of Cocks et Féret. He opened it up. The first few pages listing the vineyards of Bordeaux had been annotated with letters corresponding to the days of the week. That was one problem solved. Mademoiselle Borel’s guess had been confirmed. He was tempted to try telephoning her again with the news.
Monsieur Pamplemousse cast his eyes round the room, half expecting to see a computer terminal tucked away somewhere, but apart from a radio the only concession to the world of electronics was an elderly television. It looked as if it might be a black and white model.
So far it had all been unremarkably neat and tidy. The bathroom was no exception. Everything was put away in cupboards. There were no errant tubes of toothpaste to spoil the effect; no signs of shared occupancy.
The kitchen, on the other hand, was more rewarding. It looked as though Madame Grante must have gone out in a hurry for some reason. A pile of unwashed crockery had been left in the sink to soak. The water was cold and greasy. It suggested something urgent must have cropped up. He couldn’t picture her doing something like that without a very good reason. It wouldn’t be in her nature. He poked around in the water. She hadn’t been entertaining, that was for sure. There was only one of everything: one plate, one bowl, one set of cutlery. There was no wine glass.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced around the shelves. Most of the utensils were old and well worn, but there was a sprinkling of newer pieces of equipment: a Braun electric juicer and a Robot Coupé food processor, a new-looking set of Sabatier ‘Jeune’ professional knives in a wooden block, a mandoline for slicing vegetables, and rather surprisingly, a selection of much-used hand whisks – perhaps Madame Grante had hitherto unsuspected culinary talents?
The cupboards, on the other hand, were surprisingly bare. It looked as though someone had given them a good clear out.