by Michael Bond
He wondered if Madame Grante would invite him in, but she made no attempt. Instead, she disappeared for a moment or two before returning with the cage containing its rightful occupant. In her other hand she held a large manila envelope.
‘This is for you. I suggest you open it when you get back to the office.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse obediently relieved her of both. He held his breath. Already he could hear JoJo holding forth.
‘I believe you have something of mine?’ said Madame Grante.
‘I do?’
‘I left it under my pillow.’
It definitely wasn’t his day. Putting the cage down for a moment, he felt for his wallet, then handed Madame Grante the photograph. She took it without a word.
‘I am very sorry.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself at a loss for words. ‘It must have been a very distressing experience for you. Did you and he …?’ The words slipped out before he could stop them.
‘Did we what, Monsieur Pamplemousse?’
‘Pardon, Madame.’ It was unforgivable. Not at all what he had meant to say.
‘We had a wonderful time together, while it lasted.’
As she closed the door he saw there were tears in her eyes.
On the way down the lift seemed to have reverted to its normal slow pace again. What was it Proust had said? The true paradises are paradises we have lost.
The Director removed two film-wrapped disques from the envelope and gazed at them. ‘Do you mean to say, Pamplemousse, these were hidden in the oiseau’s cage all the time? I can hardly believe it.’
‘I could hardly believe it myself, Monsieur. It is the old story of the man on the building site who every day was seen removing a brick in a wheelbarrow. No one bothered to challenge him for taking just one brick. It wasn’t until it was too late that they discovered he was really stealing wheelbarrows.’
The Director frowned. ‘I’m not sure that I follow you.’
‘We thought our man was after the bird, whereas in fact what he wanted to get hold of was the right cage.’
‘The right cage, Pamplemousse? I still don’t understand what you are getting at.’
Realising that he was about to get himself into deep water, Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily changed tack. ‘What I am saying, Monsieur, is that he must have hidden the disques in JoJo’s cage at some point. According to her note, it wasn’t until Madame Grante returned home and removed the sheet of sanded paper in order to clean it out properly that she discovered them. They fitted almost exactly into the bottom of the tray.’
Fortunately the Director had other things to think about. ‘It is a great weight off my mind, Aristide.’ He picked up the telephone. ‘I must warn the printers to stand by. With luck, the first copies of Le Guide should start rolling off the presses tonight. Review copies will be despatched immediately they become available.’
It seemed a good moment to leave, but as Monsieur Pamplemousse turned to go the Director waved him to remain.
‘I have something addressed to you, Aristide. It came through on the computer just before you arrived back. It appears to be in some kind of code.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse reached across and took a sheet of computer print-out from the Director. As always, the length of the message bore no relation to the amount of paper. It was short and to the point: MORE RAIN IS FORECAST. AMPLE FUNDS ARE AVAILABLE IF YOU WISH TO CASH YOUR CHEQUE. BANK OF PASSY. Ten out of ten to Martine for persistence.
The Director put a hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver. ‘What do you think it means, Aristide? Can it be that someone else has already entered the system?’
‘Perhaps the engineers are conducting some kind of tests, Monsieur. I will investigate the matter straight away.’
‘Please do, Aristide, there’s a good fellow. And don’t forget your bottles of wine. They are with Véronique.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated at the door. ‘I have a little something for you, Monsieur. It is also with Véronique.’
It wasn’t a bad swop – two bottles of Bâtard-Montrachet for one perruche. At least it solved the problem of what to do with JoJo’s stand-in.
Back at his desk, Monsieur Pamplemousse found another note awaiting him. This time it was from Jacques. He ran his eyes down it.
‘… A few years later he tried again with a restaurant boat on the river but someone shopped him. After that he drifted for a while, worked as a radio operator on board ship; he even tried his luck working the canals in the Paris area, but eventually he gave that up and returned to Belfort. Computers were coming into their own, and because of his experience as a radio operator, he landed a job with Poulanc …’ Congratulations followed, then: ‘Next time, be a good fellow and bring us in earlier. It’ll save an awful lot of tedious explanations.’
Next time! Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed out of the window for a moment or two. He hoped there would never be a ‘next time’. With luck, Dubois should be out of the way for some while to come and would have learned his lesson. He wondered if, during his time in Paris, he had ever come near Le Guide’s offices. If he’d seen the Director driving out through the gates in his usual splendour, the grievance he had been nursing over the years would have come flooding back, enlarged out of all proportion. Probably when his journeyings on the Seine took him past the Esplanade des Invalides he’d taken to thinking out ways of getting his revenge. It was hard to imagine the surprise he must have felt when suddenly, years later, the Director turned up out of the blue at the Poulanc factory.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a sigh. It all seemed academic now. Around him the rest of the staff were rushing about their work as news filtered through that all was well again.
Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the telephone. He suddenly felt very flat.
Pile oh face? Heads or tails?
He took out a coin and tossed it. Tails. He dialled a number.
‘Couscous. I have finished what I was doing. I shall be home this evening.’
‘Oh, là! là!’ Doucette sounded flustered. If only he had phoned earlier. Her sister was already hard at work preparing the evening meal. Tripe à la mode de Caen. They were having it for the simple reason that Agathe knew he didn’t like it.
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to say that an even simpler reason why he didn’t like the dish was because of the way Agathe made it. Tripe needed to be cooked for a long time, preferably in a casserole which had been hermetically sealed with flour and water paste. If you didn’t, it was a sure recipe for indigestion. Agathe couldn’t be bothered with such niceties, and he almost always suffered accordingly.
‘We have plenty. It can be divided. You will be more than welcome.’
‘No, no, Couscous, I shall be all right, really I shall. Tomorrow night we can go out and make up for it.
‘You, too, ma chérie.’
Clearing the call, he allowed all of two seconds to elapse, then he dialled Martine’s number.
‘Bank of Passy? I have a cheque I wish to cash. What time do you close?’
‘We are open until late this evening.’
‘In that case I will be with you as soon as possible.’
‘Would you like to know what I have planned?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Monles aux amandes.’
Mussels with almonds. That was more like it. He felt his mouth watering at the thought. It was a Basque speciality. The last time he’d tasted it had been in a little restaurant in Saint-Jean-de-Luz. It had been helped on its way with a pousse-rapière beforehand – Armagnac, sparkling white wine and a slice of orange. The memory lingered.
‘And after that?’
‘Poularde en demi-deuil.’
‘Aaaah!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his salivary glands begin to work overtime at the mere mention of the name. It was a dish made famous by one of the Mères Lyonnaises. Chicken with slices of truffle placed in splits between the skin and the breast. It was an apt name – chicken in partial mourning.
‘
And the poularde is from where?’
‘Bresse, of course!’
‘Of course! Where else?’ In the circumstances it couldn’t possibly be otherwise.
The bird would be stuffed with sausage meat mixed with white of egg, cream and breadcrumbs, then it would be poached in a court-bouillon containing leeks, carrots, turnips and celery. It was not something his mother had ever cooked. Even on fête days, truffles had been way beyond their reach.
‘Then some cheese. I have managed to get something special from near home which you may like to try.
‘And to finish, there are orange sorbets …’
‘Served inside the orange with meringue on top?’
She laughed. ‘There are other ways?’
‘I will see you soon. May I bring the wine? I have something I think you will appreciate.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly realised how hungry he felt. Even so, he knew someone who must be feeling even hungrier.
‘May I also bring Pommes Frites?’
‘Of course. I will lay another place.’
Pommes Frites pricked up his ears at the sound of his name. Given the various other evocative words he had overheard during the course of the conversation, words like poularde and Bresse, add to them the look of anticipation on his master’s face – a look he knew only too well – and it all sounded distinctly promising.
He stood up as his master replaced the receiver. It was time to reorganise his filing system. Certain smells could now be relegated to the archives; new ones would soon be taking their place.
And the very nice thing about that, he decided as he followed Monsieur Pamplemousse down the corridor and into a room at the far end, was that he would be sharing them with the person who meant most to him in the world.
Only one thing puzzled Pommes Frites. Why on earth at such a moment waste valuable time bothering to shave? There were some things about his master he would never understand.
About the Author
Michael Bond made the decision to become a writer while serving in the Army in the Second World War. In 1947 he returned to the BBC, where he had worked previously, and spent some years there as a cameraman. Paddington Bear was born after a shopping trip on Christmas Eve when he spotted a small, solitary bear in a large London store. Paddington Bear is now a household name, and the Paddington Bear books have been translated into over twenty languages.
Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates is the sixth novel in Michael Bond’s series for adults, an inspired blend of crime and cuisine featuring an endearing duo of gastronomic detectives.
Also by Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Secret Mission
Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot
Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure
Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft
Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates
Monsieur Pamplemousse Rests His Case
Monsieur Pamplemousse Stands Firm
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Location
Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train
Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation
Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web
And also the bestselling ‘Paddington Bear’ series
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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London W1T 6DW
allisonandbusby.com
First published in 1990.
This ebook edition first published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2016.
Copyright © 1990 by MICHAEL BOND
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1881–8