by Michael Bond
‘I think, Monsieur, that Madame Grante’s suffering should be our prime concern. What of her sewing and her knitting?’
The Director looked suitably shame-faced. ‘You are right, Aristide. I was thinking of everyone’s P39s. So much has happened over the past twenty-four hours it is hard to know where one’s priorities lie. Of course Madame Grante’s personal safety must come first.’
‘I am also of the opinion, Monsieur, that when we find Madame Grante we could be well on the way to solving many of our other problems.’
‘Then I must return to the oiseau. It may yet find itself in the witness box.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the Director dubiously. ‘I doubt if a budgerigar’s statement will stand up in court, Monsieur.’
‘There is always a first time, Aristide. I have it on good authority that the testimony of a bloodhound is admissible in America. Speaking of which,’ the Director glanced down. ‘I take it Pommes Frites is working on the case too?’
‘Of course, Monsieur. Rest assured we will neither of us leave a stone unturned until Madame Grante has been found.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse spoke with a confidence which he was far from feeling. In the cold light of day the Director looked drawn and haggard.
‘Comment ça va, Chief?’ He tried not to make it sound too much like JoJo.
The Director paused. ‘Between you and me, Aristide, things are not so good. The girls in the typing pool are doing their best, but they are attempting the impossible. At their present rate of progress there isn’t a hope in the world of publishing on time. Even with the original material it would be pushing things, but starting from scratch …’ He gave a dispirited shrug.
As they said goodbye and went their separate ways Monsieur Pamplemousse suppressed a shiver. For some reason he was suddenly reminded of the python in the pet store. Perhaps even now Madame Grante was snuggled up to the writer of the note, blissfully unaware of the fate he had in store for her. It was a sobering thought which only served to strengthen his resolve.
As they reached the corner of the Place de Santiago-du-Chili he paused and glanced back the way they had come. The Director appeared to be engaged in an argument with someone just inside the entrance to Le Guide.
Could it be that Rambaud was refusing him admission? He wouldn’t put it past him. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. He would enjoy getting his own back.
Life was not without its compensations. JoJo’s stand-in was enjoying an unexpected reprieve. His grilling looked as though it might be delayed indefinitely.
6
THE TOMBSTONE TRAIL
Unfurling a snow-white napkin, Monsieur Pamplemousse used it to give his moustache an anticipatory dab before tucking it in behind his shirt collar. Uttering a sigh of contentment, he settled back and took in his surroundings. Although it was barely twelve thirty, the main dining area of the restaurant was already crowded and the stools lined up in front of the bar were all taken. He was lucky to have got one of the small tables situated in the window.
He ordered a Kir Sancerre blanc from the waiter who had shown him to his seat and it arrived a few moments later along with a small dish of biscuits and nuts.
The pace was hotting up. Somewhere in the background he could hear the familiar sound of a kitchen hand chopping baguettes with a guillotine. Monsieur, presiding over the bar, was busily pouring apéritifs in between shaking hands with old friends and filling pichets and demi-pichets with vin rouge, vin blanc and vin rosé ordered from a list, unclassified and unidentified as to year, chalked on a blackboard above the counter; wines which aspired to no greater heights than that of accompanying and washing down good, wholesome food. Than which, in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s opinion, there could be few better aims in life; an outlook which was endorsed without question by Pommes Frites, noisily smacking his lips as he settled himself down at his master’s feet and listened to the clink of knives and forks hard at work on all sides. He, too, had a look of anticipation on his face.
Madame was busy writing down the lunch-time orders on a pad, whilst at the same time keeping a weather-eye on all that was happening around her. Other than an opening smile of welcome and a ‘Bon appétit’ when the order had been brought, communication between the patronne and her guests was minimal. Brownie points were lost if you didn’t know what you wanted by the time she arrived. Dithering caused raised eyebrows. Last-minute changes of mind gave rise to barely suppressed sighs of irritation. Time was of the essence. Her wave as she caught sight of Monsieur Pamplemousse was the equivalent of a Presidential honour.
By Le Guide standards there was nothing particularly special about Les Tourelles in the Rue Bosquet. The scene was probably being duplicated at that very moment in similar restaurants all over France. Waiters hurrying to and fro in their black waistcoats and white aprons, shirt sleeves rolled up in businesslike fashion to just below the elbows. The paper table-cloths laid over starched white linen. Brown panelled walls with unframed copies of turn-of-the-century posters stuck up on them. The long banquette covered in dark red velvet against one wall; the tables in front of it packed so close together in order to make maximum use of the available space that there was barely room for latecomers to squeeze between them; the waist-high divisions which turned the centre of the room into a group of islands surrounded by bulging coat stands.
If Monsieur Pamplemousse patronised it more than any other establishment when he was in Paris it was as much because it was handy for the office as for any other reason – not so close that it was full of familiar faces, but not so far away that walking between the two took up an inordinate amount of his lunch time; that and the sense of timeless, unchanging permanence it always gave him. He hoped it would survive the computer age and competition from Le Fast Food. It would certainly need a well-programmed computer to match Madame’s grasp of what was going on, and the service in most of the latter was slow by comparison.
Monsieur Pamplemousse had no problems over his order. He chose, as he almost always did, from the 78F fixed-price menu, service compris.
Filets de Hareng Pommes à l’Huile; 1/4 Poulet Rôti Pommes Frites; and a Tarte aux Pommes for himself, and the usual for Pommes Frites: a steak followed by a bone. Since a quarter-bottle of wine was included in the price of a meal it meant he would have a whole half-bottle to himself. He chose the red. Pommes Frites would be more than happy with a splash in his bowl of water; what was known as an abondance.
‘Saignant?’ Madame wrote down the second part of his order without batting an eyelid, then automatically slipped the bottom copy of the bill under an ashtray for the waiter to see when he brought the basket of bread.
‘Oui, s’il vous plaît.’ Pommes Frites wouldn’t mind if his steak was underdone or not, though if pressed for a decision he would probably have opted for whichever method took the least time. Gastronomically, his master’s present case had been a disaster area so far. Not at all up to par.
While waiting for his hareng to arrive Monsieur Pamplemousse mused on his visit to the night porter. The man’s reaction to the photograph had been revealing, for he had added one useful piece of information. It was to do with the man’s attire. Madame Grante’s brother didn’t always look quite as immaculate as he had described earlier. On the night in question he had looked much as he did in the picture. He’d been wearing a dark blue roll-neck sweater, to which could be added light blue jeans, a black leather jacket, and rope-soled shoes.
He also had a nervous tic in his right eye.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
The man had looked injured. ‘You didn’t ask me, Monsieur. You only asked me what he usually looked like.’
To which there had been no answer.
‘Assuming all external connections are correct.’ Martine Borel’s phrase came back to Monsieur Pamplemousse as he took the photograph out of his pocket and had another look. One connection was certainly missing: where the picture had been taken; it would be nice to know. It was obviously
a studio shot and the only clue was the name of the photographer on the back. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, unless …
In between the hareng and the poulet Monsieur Pamplemousse left his table for a moment to make a telephone call.
‘Mademoiselle Borel? Comment ça va? I hope I am not interrupting you.
‘Me? It is hard to say. I have a few leads but not much time.
‘You could do something for me on your Minitel.
‘I need to know the location of a photographer. I have the name, but no other details. Is that possible?
‘No. I will give you my office Fax number. If you have any luck you can let me know there.
‘Merci.’ Once upon a time he would have used the pneumatique system. Using compressed air to propel messages to their destination via a network of underground pipes had seemed the ultimate in speed and efficiency. Now, he didn’t even know if it was still in use. Perhaps it was yet another casualty of the computer age.
The poulet arrived just as he got back to his table. It was large and crisp and succulent; doubtless Pommes Frites would be only too pleased to help him out if he had problems. The mound of accompanying frites were equally crisp, verging on the golden; the bread basket had been topped up.
Between mouthfuls he gazed out of the window at the people hurrying past. Occasionally they stopped to study the menu or to peer inside before going on their way.
His thoughts turned again to Madame Grante. Since the message had been delivered by hand, the chances were that the man had done it himself – by now Monsieur Pamplemousse was convinced they were dealing with one person, although if he’d been asked to give his reasons he would have been hard put to say why; it was simply a hunch. If he was right, whoever it was would hardly have entrusted the job to anyone else – he would have wanted to make sure that it got there safely. He might even have got a kick out of doing it himself; there was a kind of sadistic element to all that had happened so far. In which case the person responsible was probably at large somewhere in Paris. But where in Paris? For all Monsieur Pamplemousse knew he could be sitting in the same restaurant at that very moment watching him from another table.
It was all very well the Director saying don’t bring the police in, but there could come a point when they would have to. The whole thing had escalated beyond the mere good of Le Guide. Madame Grante’s life was now at stake. If they left it too long they would be abused for not having done it sooner. The police were no better than anyone else at working miracles.
After the tartes aux pommes Monsieur Pamplemousse ordered a café and at the same time called for his bill. They arrived together.
Back at the office everyone else in his section was still out for lunch. He was glad in a way. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
A large manila envelope awaited him on his desk. It was plastered with DO NOT BEND labels. Trigaux must have worked through his lunch break.
Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the phone and called his contact at the Sûreté.
‘Jacques? Aristide here.
‘Oui, bien, merci.
‘You might have told me it was Mademoiselle. I was expecting a Monsieur Borel.’
He got the same reply he’d been given by the night porter. ‘You didn’t ask me.’ It was another case of ‘assuming all external connections are correct.’ He was stuck with the phrase now for ever more.
‘Oui. She was very charming and helpful.’ While he was talking, Monsieur Pamplemousse cupped the receiver under his chin and undid the flap of the envelope.
‘Jacques, there is another small favour I would like to ask. It is a long shot, but I have some blow-ups of a thumb-print.
‘Of course. When it is all over.
‘At the restaurant of your choice.’
Holding the photograph between thumb and forefinger, he shook the envelope free. As he did so a piece of paper fell out and fluttered to the table. It was a note from Trigaux.
‘Next time you have any chocolates you need photographed, try leaving them further away from the door.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the picture. It was in colour. Oozy, sickly, and almost uniformly chocolate brown. It was like looking at a child’s idea of a moonscape. The flat area in the centre showed clearly where Trigaux had stood.
‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ He suddenly realised there was a disembodied voice in his right ear.
‘Non. Forget it.
‘Oui. I will be in touch.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse put the receiver down and buried his head in his hands. He stayed where he was for a while, only vaguely aware of the fact that a girl had entered the room through a door at the far end and was coming towards him. She was clutching a piece of paper and she looked in a hurry.
‘Monsieur Pamplemousse. I am glad I caught you. We thought you might not be coming back.’
He took the piece of paper and glanced at it mechanically. The word URGENT was stamped in red across the top.
The typed message was short and to the point. Three towns were listed: Rennes, Nice and Belfort. Each was followed by an address. ‘Bonne chance – Martine’ had been added in ink.
The miracles of modern science! Where would it all end? At one time such a task would have taken many people weeks of painstaking work sifting through directories.
He glanced up and realised to his surprise that the girl was still there.
‘There is no reply. Unless …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse paused for a moment. ‘Send a message back saying, “Merci.” You could add the word “Bordeaux” if you like.’
If Martine was still working on the code-word to enter the computer, she deserved a clue. It was too late for the information to do any harm even if it got into the wrong hands. Doubtless a new code would have to be devised anyway.
‘I will do that straight away, Monsieur Pamplemousse.’ The girl still showed no sign of leaving. She looked embarrassed.
‘Well? What is it?’ He tried not to sound too impatient.
‘It is about Madame Grante, Monsieur Pamplemousse.’
‘Madame Grante?’
‘We were discussing your message …’
‘We? Who are “we”?’
‘The other girls in the Communications Room and myself.’
‘How do you know it concerns Madame Grante?’
‘We put two and two together and since you are working on the case and it was marked “urgent” …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a sigh. So much for security and confidentiality. The Director would not be pleased if he knew!
‘And what conclusion did you reach?’
‘It isn’t exactly a conclusion, Monsieur Pamplemousse. It is just that it is a funny coincidence.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to conceal his growing impatience. ‘A coincidence? Tell me, what coincidence?’
‘Well, you see, last summer Madame Grante went on holiday to the Jura, and when she came back she was all different …’
‘Different? How do you mean – different?’
‘Well, it is hard to say. She was somehow … nicer, and she seemed more approachable. I remember she brought us back a bottle of Suze and some tarte au fromage. I had never tasted Suze before.’
Suze. He hadn’t had any himself for a long time. It was an acquired taste, popular with commercial travellers and others who had to stand lots of drinks, according to George Simenon’s Maigret. The gentiane from which it was made had medicinal qualities and it was low on alcohol.
‘Anyway, we decided she must have met someone while she was there.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sat up. He was suddenly all ears.
‘And?’
‘Well, it didn’t last for very long. After a while she gradually dropped back into her old ways again. Worse, if anything – and we all thought that was that. Then, just recently, it happened again, only this time we really knew there was something going on. She started having flowers on her desk and once …’ The girl began to blush ag
ain.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, once someone saw her coming out of that shop in the Rue Cler, you know …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t know, but he didn’t want to lose face either. He suspected it might be the one with the frilly-packed window. It had one of those fashionable ‘In’ names which could have applied to almost anything. He wondered what it was all leading up to.
‘So, as I was saying, when we saw the message and the list of places we put two and two together. Belfort is in the Jura, which is where Madame Grante went to on her holiday, and well, we thought you might like to know.’
‘You did well. Merci.’
The girl paused at the door. ‘Madame Grante is going to be all right, Monsieur Pamplemousse? I mean, she’s a funny old thing at times, but she’s got a heart of gold really. Especially if anyone’s in trouble. I think she’s probably very lonely, so she puts up all sorts of barriers and pretends she doesn’t mind.’
As the girl made her exit, Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed out of the window, lost in thought. Communication! Despite all man’s endeavours, despite the invention of the computer or perhaps even because of such things, communication on its simplest level remained the great problem in the world. There he had been, living in his own little world, wrestling with his problem, and in another part of the very same building a group of young girls had been sitting around thinking about it as well, putting two and two together and coming up with one of the answers he needed. If it hadn’t been for the Fax message they might never have told him.
Belfort! Opening one of the drawers he took out a copy of Le Guide and leafed through it. Belfort was just a name, somewhere he had yet to visit. He found it on page 221. It boasted one major hotel – the Hôtel du Lion, several lesser ones with varying degrees of comfort, two restaurants with a Stock Pot, and a sprinkling of smaller ones. He wondered if Madame Grante had stayed at any of the ones listed, and if so, which. He made a note of the names on his pad, then put the book away.