by Michael Bond
Having reached that decision, Pommes Frites quickened his pace, the smell of stagnant water growing stronger with every step he took.
The drive from the police station to the offices of Le Guide was not the happiest Monsieur Pamplemousse had ever experienced. Despite his garb, which had not improved with the passage of time, he would have preferred taking an autobus to riding in the Director’s car. Optional extras in the way of tinted glass rendered the atmosphere even chillier than it might otherwise have been.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was the first to speak.
‘It was kind of you to bail me out, Monsieur.’
‘Frankly, Pamplemousse, kindness did not enter into the matter. The plain fact is we need you. Although, having said that, you may well be a master, or perhaps judging from your attire, mistress of disguise, but I fear that if nothing is forthcoming very soon, we shall have to bring in the police after all.’
Having exhausted the subject as a topic of conversation, they sat in silence for a while.
The whole episode had been a disaster. The only good thing was the fact that Amandier had been in charge of the police operation. He was one of the ‘old school’. His handshake had been acquired many moons ago from the gendarmerie’s standard book of etiquette, ‘Advice from an Old to a Young Gendarme’, and it showed. If it had been one of the younger ones who knew him only by reputation he wouldn’t have fancied his chances. He would still be languishing in the cells along with the others. It was one of those occasions when the French legal system which decreed your being guilty until you managed to prove otherwise had its drawbacks. Proof of his innocence, whatever the charges, would have taken for ever. At least no one had thought of comparing his handwriting with that on the note in the Père-Lachaise. It would have been hard to talk his way out of that one.
It was the Director’s turn to break the silence.
‘The computer threw up an interesting fact this morning,’ he began, apropos of nothing, as they turned into the Rue du Bac. ‘Overnight, sales of last year’s copies of Le Guide have risen phenomenally. Orders have been flooding in. It points to a great upsurge in our popularity.’
‘Did the computer also throw up where the sales took place, Monsieur?’
‘Strangely enough, they were all in Paris – mostly in the twentieth arrondissement. It seems that local bookstores there have sold out and demand has since spread to the surrounding areas. Brentano’s in the Avenue de l’Opéra were in a state of siege yesterday evening and again early this morning. If the trend continues nationwide, and if next year’s edition is ever published, we shall need to treble our print order. The projected sales graph is already off the board. I have ordered an extension.’
‘I think I would hold your hand, Monsieur.’
The Director swerved violently and under the pretext of avoiding an oncoming camion, edged nearer the offside window. ‘I’d rather you didn’t, Pamplemousse!’ he exclaimed. ‘In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that after all this is over you should seek medical advice. You may be in need of a rest. A spell by the sea may not come amiss. You can have the use of my summer residence in Normandy if you wish. The cold wind blowing in from La Manche often works wonders.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse heaved a sigh. ‘You think I should wait that long, Monsieur?’
His sarcasm was wasted.
‘Much as it grieves me to say so, Pamplemousse, we cannot spare you at this particular time for such luxuries. It will have to wait. Every moment counts.’
‘You misunderstand me, Monsieur.’ As briefly as possible, Monsieur Pamplemousse outlined the reason for his being in Aux Deux Magots. From there it was but a short step to the possible reason behind the increase in sales. The Director listened in silence.
‘I find this incredible, Pamplemousse. Did you give no thought at all to the plight of any poor innocent tourists caught up in your goings-on, had they happened to be carrying a copy of Le Guide as so many of them do?
‘The repercussions have already begun. The American Embassy has registered a protest in the strongest possible terms. The police did not stop with those on the terrace. All the occupants of the café were removed for questioning; passers-by were arrested on suspicion.’
‘They were quite safe, Monsieur, provided their copy of Le Guide was not open at page 221.’
‘Humph.’ The Director gave his passenger an odd look, then drove in silence for a while, clearly lost in thought.
‘Between you, me and the montant de barrière, Pamplemousse,’ he said at last, ‘there are moments when I begin to wonder if I made the right decision in committing our entire future to an electronic chip. Management can all too easily become divorced from the assets it is supposed to be managing. The sales figures are another case in point. A snap decision based on the computer’s findings would have been disastrous.’
‘A computer is only as good as the information fed into it, Monsieur. It cannot work miracles. However, assuming all external connections are correct …’ Almost without thinking, Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself quoting Mademoiselle Borel.
The Director listened with half an ear as he negotiated the stream of traffic converging on the Esplanade des Invalides. He stopped at the entrance to Le Guide in order to show his pass, watched with distaste while Monsieur Pamplemousse rummaged in Madame Grante’s handbag before doing likewise, then drove round the fountain in the middle of the inner courtyard before coming to rest, not in his usual marked parking area to the right of the main entrance, but alongside a small service door some way beyond it. He withdrew a plastic entry card from his wallet and was about to hand it to Monsieur Pamplemousse when he paused. He suddenly looked tired and dispirited.
‘Comment ça va, Aristide?’
‘Comment ça va?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a shrug. What was there to say? Everything and nothing.
‘You are pursuing your enquiries?’
‘I have not been idle. I think I may have found out how it was done. I have yet to find out why, or indeed the name of the person responsible. To do that I may have to visit Belfort.’
For some reason his words had a strange effect on the Director. He went pale and for a brief moment seemed almost to shrink inside himself.
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at him with some concern. ‘Is anything the matter, Monsieur? Can I get you some water?’
‘Eau?’ The very thought seemed to bring about a miraculous recovery. ‘If what I suspect is true, Pamplemousse, it will need something far stronger than eau to set matters right!
‘If you will excuse me, I will just park the car. You carry on up and I will see you in my office. Before we go any further there are things I feel I should tell you.’
8
CONFESSION TIME
Monsieur Pamplemousse rose to his feet as the Director entered the office. He received a peremptory wave in return, indicating that he should return to his seat.
‘Brace yourself, Pamplemousse.’ The Director stationed himself behind his desk. ‘I fear I have bad news.’
‘Monsieur?’
‘Pamplemousse, an attempt has been made on the life of the oiseau!’
‘JoJo?’ If the Director had announced that someone had planted a bomb under his chair, Monsieur Pamplemousse could hardly have been more surprised. It was the last thing he’d expected to hear. He glanced round automatically towards the table where he had last seen the bird cage. It was now shrouded in a dark green cloth.
‘He is not …?’
‘Fortunately, no. Although he is still in a state of shock. I must confess I keep the house covered with a cloth because I cannot stand constant chirruping in the mornings.’
‘Alors?’
‘At oh, eight twenty-five this morning, Pamplemousse, shortly before I arrived at the office, a man purporting to be a veterinary surgeon called to take him away. He was allowed as far as reception and the cage was brought down. Fortunately, thanks to the vigilance of the gatekeeper, the attempt was forestalled. Rambaud came on duty just
as the man was about to leave. Having overheard our conversation the day before, and knowing the importance we attach to the oiseau’s well-being, he asked to see the man’s credentials. When he couldn’t produce them Rambaud refused to release the cage and threatened to call the police. After a brief tug-of-war – during which, I regret to say, the bars of the oiseau’s cage were nearly torn asunder, the would-be assassin made off. As he did so Rambaud heard him utter the ominous word “Vendredi”. Today, I need hardly remind you, Pamplemousse, is Thursday. You have one day left.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter. He couldn’t help feeling that the Director’s interpretation of the event verged on the over-dramatic. Trying to remove JoJo from the office hardly came under the heading of attempted murder, but doubtless his chief was beginning to feel the strain. All the same, it was certainly very strange, particularly in view of the feeling he’d had the previous evening that someone had been in Madame Grante’s apartment. Perhaps whoever it was had gone there first looking for JoJo and drawn a blank. If they had then tried at the office it could mean only one thing. His own movements must have been under close scrutiny, which was disconcerting to say the least.
As Monsieur Pamplemousse sat down heavily in the visitor’s chair a pained expression came over the Director’s face.
‘Aristide, I do wish you would either cross your legs or sit facing the other way. I find the view from my desk somewhat disconcerting.’
‘Pardon, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse became aware of a faint tearing sound as he struggled to reach a suitable compromise half-way between comfort and decorum. It was a simple case of trying unsuccessfully to get a generous litre into a bare demi-litre pot. Something went ‘twang’.
‘Merde!’ It was too late, the damage had been done. He rubbed his right thigh.
‘A woman’s life is full of problems, Monsieur, not the least of which I have discovered is how to sit down gracefully without revealing that for but one glimpse of which many men would give their eye-teeth.’
‘I bow to your superior knowledge, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely. ‘However, most women are more circumspect when it comes to shopping for their nether garments.’
‘These came from a little boutique in the Rue Cler, Monsieur …’
‘I have no wish to know where you bought them, Pamplemousse. They make you look like an advertisement for a house of ill repute. One which has all too clearly seen better days, if I may say so.’
‘I did not buy them, Monsieur. They belong to Madame Grante …’
The Director gave a start. ‘Madame Grante!’ Sitting bolt upright, he took a closer look. ‘Who would have thought it, Aristide? Women are strange creatures, they really are. A different breed. How can a mere male ever really be expected to know what goes on inside their minds? I know the shop very well. Brevity is often combined, it seems to me, with untold complexity. I invariably hurry past.’
‘In the words of the song, Monsieur, love is a tender trap. Madame Grante must have been hit very hard.’
‘Yes, yes.’ A look of impatience crossed the Director’s face as yet another tearing sound emerged from the depths of the chair.
‘Pamplemousse, I have a spare suit in the bedroom next door. It is kept there for emergencies. Before we go any further, I suggest you make use of it. You will find it very much on the tight side, I fear, but it will be an improvement on your present mode of dress. There are also some shirts in one of the drawers.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was only too willing to oblige. He had no wish to stay looking the way he was for a second longer than necessary. He also sensed that the Director needed a little time in which to gather his thoughts. He had mentioned having more than one matter he wished to talk about. Clearly, from the nervous way he was drumming on his desk, there was something other than the attempted abduction of JoJo on his mind.
While he was exchanging his chemise for a snow-white shirt bearing the Charvet label, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s thoughts gravitated towards Pommes Frites. It was unlike him to go off on his own for so long. On the other hand, he was well able to look after himself and at least he was on home ground. Pommes Frites knew his way around Paris better than most humans – guidebooks were an unnecessary luxury. All the same, he couldn’t help wondering what was keeping him.
The socks and tie were from Marcel Lassance.
The Director had been doing his wardrobe less than justice. There was not one suit hanging on a rail, but several. Monsieur Pamplemousse chose one of medium blue with a discreet pin-stripe. It fitted him like a glove. He looked at the label inside the jacket. It was by André Bardot. Considering his reflection in a full-length mirror, he found himself looking at a stranger; Doucette would hardly have recognised him. Removing a speck of invisible dust from one of the lapels, he closed the cupboard door and went back into the office.
The Director was standing at the window perusing an old copy of Le Guide.
He looked round anxiously as Monsieur Pamplemousse entered. ‘Mind how you sit!’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t wish to hear any more untoward noises.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse lowered himself carefully into the chair and then draped one leg elegantly over the other. ‘There is no cause for alarm, Monsieur. The suit is a perfect fit. It could have been made for me. I am most grateful.’
‘Hmmm.’ The Director looked less than pleased at the news as he turned his attention to the book he was holding aloft.
‘Pamplemousse, you mentioned a certain word to me just now.’
‘I am sorry, Monsieur. I’m afraid it slipped out.’
‘No, no, Pamplemousse.’ The Director clucked impatiently. ‘I was not referring to your earlier use of an expletive, rather to something you said when we arrived. You used the word “Belfort”. It confirmed my worst suspicions.’
‘It did, Monsieur?’
‘Pamplemousse, tell me what you know about poulets de Bresse.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse heaved an inward sigh. He had lost track of the date, but he must be coming up to his annual salary review. At such times the Director had a habit of shooting odd questions at members of staff under the guise of pretending he wanted the information for some new project. Usually it was on a subject he had only recently looked up. It was a kind of oral test paper, replacing the conventional interview.
He closed his eyes in order to concentrate his thoughts. He was getting off lightly. Everyone knew about poulets de Bresse, famous for centuries as the best chicken in the world.
‘They are, of course, from the plain of Bresse – Brillat-Savarin country, and birthplace of Fernand Point – but more particularly from an area within the plain amounting to some 400 square kilometres – an area which was first defined as long ago as 1936. Within that area seven breeders supply day-old chicks to a thousand or so farmers, each of whom may raise a maximum of five hundred birds at a time – in other words a grand total of not more than half a million a year. The birds spend thirty-five days as chicks and then they are allowed outside to run freely on the grass, each one being allotted a minimum area of ten square metres – which is a good deal more than the average Parisian enjoys. During that time they are fed on cereals – mostly corn – and skimmed milk. At fourteen weeks they are brought inside again for fattening until at sixteen weeks they are pronounced ready for the market. The weight of each bird before and after dressing is clearly laid down. In the latter case, no bird may go to market unless it weighs at least 1.5kg and is unblemished. A true native species of Bresse chicken has white flesh and feathers, and bluish-grey legs with four toes and a red wattle and comb. In the market itself they are clearly recognisable by a lead ring around the foot attesting to the bird’s origin. Strictly speaking it should be poularde de Bresse, for the hen is considered much tastier than the cock. They have an unmistakable delicate flavour and they are at their best when roasted simply in a very hot oven until they are golden brown and the skin is crisp. Since 1957 they have been Appellation d’Origine Co
ntrôlée and any variation on the stipulations I have mentioned is strictly against the law and a punishable offence.’
‘Exactement!’ The Director sounded so much like a schoolmaster congratulating his star pupil on passing the daily test with flying colours, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to ask if he could have the rest of the day off, but clearly it was no time for levity; there was more to come. He waited patiently.
‘Have you any firsthand knowledge, Aristide, of what that punishment is?’
‘A heavy fine, I would imagine, Monsieur. Possibly, in extreme cases, a prison sentence. If the rules are administered as strictly as those which apply to wine, and doubtless they are, then there will be very little room for manoeuvre; every factor, every process, every detail from the moment of birth will be strictly enforced.’
‘And what of those on the other side of the fence? What of those who sell a poularde which purports to be from Bresse, but is in fact an impostor?’
‘Ah, that is a different matter, Monsieur, but they would still find themselves in trouble. That would be a matter of fraud – of “passing off”. The proper authorities would deal with the problem.’
There had been a time in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s own career when he had been part of the then 200-strong section of the Paris police who served as food inspectors – that had been a major reason for his becoming interested in the whole business of cuisine in the first place. Then it had been a matter of checking scales for accuracy, ensuring that croissants au beurre contained no margarine, sampling truffled foie gras to make certain it contained the real thing and not the cheaper Moroccan whites dyed black; the list of their duties had been endless and they had not been the most popular members of the force.
The Director sat down at his desk again and placed the Guide in front of him. He gazed at it for a moment or two, then spread his hands out on the blotter, palms down.
‘Some twenty-five years ago, Aristide, I was just one of the team. I had not long been with Le Guide and I was serving my apprenticeship as an Inspector. Our founder,’ he turned and paid his respects to the freshly scrubbed portrait of Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, ‘our founder believed in starting at the bottom, just as he had done himself many years before.