by Michael Bond
‘You think it would have come to that?’
‘Michelin never award a third star to a restaurant simply for the food alone,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Nor, Monsieur, do we award our Stock Pots for that reason. The withdrawal might only have been temporary, but they would have been withdrawn and he couldn’t face the thought.’
It was the Director’s turn to fall silent. It had happened before, of course. There had been the famous occasion when a chef had committed suicide because of the loss of his only star in Michelin.
‘Ours is a heavy responsibility, Aristide,’ he said at last. ‘The irony is that Les Cinq Parfaits will lose them anyway by virtue of Albert Parfait’s own act.’
‘Only if that act is made public, Monsieur.’
The Director gave a start. ‘What are you suggesting, Pamplemousse?’
‘I am suggesting that if Albert Parfait’s death is put down to heart failure – which covers a multitude of sins – then things will go on as before.’
‘I am afraid that is not possible. I cannot agree. Knowing what I know, my conscience would not allow it.’
‘In that case,’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt inside his jacket pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. ‘I am afraid, Monsieur, I have to tender my resignation. My own conscience would not allow me to continue.’ It was the least he could do. The mental picture of Albert Parfait’s last imploring look remained vividly in his mind. A cry for help if ever he’d seen one. A cry that he’d unwittingly ignored.
The Director took the sheet of paper and stared at it disbelievingly. ‘What if I refuse to accept it?’
‘That is your decision, Monsieur. I shall be elsewhere.’
‘You realise what you are asking, Aristide?’
‘If it is possible to hush up the business of the Institut,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘as I am sure it will be, then doubtless it will also be possible to hush up the cause of Albert Parfait’s death. Publication of the facts will do no one any good. Representations in certain quarters … a word in the right ear … I am sure you have many contacts, Monsieur …’
There was a long pause. ‘And if I do? Will you allow me to tear up this ridiculous letter?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse stubbornly. ‘We shall have to wait and see. Jean-Claude will take over.’
‘He knows about his father?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘I broke the news to him this morning.’
‘How has he taken it?’
‘It was a shock, although he had been expecting something to happen. It was the way it happened that bothered him most.’
‘You think he is capable of becoming patron?’
‘I am sure of it, Monsieur. It was his father’s wish. He will rise to the occasion. Besides, he will not be alone. He will have the support of his brothers.’ He took out his wallet and removed the photograph of the girl. ‘He also has someone to work for and if all goes well, to help him. They have already been through a lot together.’
The Director took the photograph and studied it carefully.
‘It was for her that Jean-Claude conceived his plan,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘She is very attractive, I agree. But why her? There must have been many such girls at the Institut.’
‘When you are in love, Monsieur, it is always with the most beautiful girl in the world and always you fear for the attention of others. Jean-Claude knew the annual visit of the Grosse Légume was drawing near and he became more and more convinced that she would be amongst his targets. But short of abduction, he couldn’t think of any good reason for getting her out of the way without bringing trouble on Les Cinq Parfaits. He needed something which would bring her parents running to her rescue without actually giving the game away. That was when he dreamed up the idea of the kidnap note and why it had to be in English. The timing was critical – it had to be immediately before the “visit”. Unfortunately, just as he was about to put his plan into action something went wrong. Somehow or other, others got wind of it and panic set in. Getting rid of him for good was out of the question – he was too well known. Putting him out of action for a while in the Sanatorium was at best a temporary measure to keep him quiet while they tried to think what to do next.’
‘I am curious to know what led you to the Institut so quickly,’ broke in the Director. ‘Locally, of course, I gather there had long been rumours about the place, but here in Paris there was nothing to connect it with Jean-Claude’s disappearance. It was put down to all manner of things. At one point it was even suggested it might be the work of a foreign power. When you started your investigations on the instructions of certain people in authority, others started to panic. It had always been a case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing. Orders were issued and then, as new facts came to light, promptly countermanded.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gripped the arms of his chair impatiently. ‘I am curious to know how such a situation could ever have been allowed to develop in the first place. I find it incredible.’
‘Ssh! Aristide!’ Putting a finger to his lips, the Director got up from behind his desk, crossed to the door, opened it and having looked out to make sure the coast was clear, indicated to his secretary that they were not to be disturbed.
Back at his desk he settled down again and made nervous play with a set of large ball-bearings suspended from a kind of stainless steel trapeze. In the silence of the office it sounded like the opening day of the National Boules Championship.
‘Politics, Aristide,’ he said at last, ‘is a dirty game. In this case what probably began as a tiny favour on someone’s part, a greasing of the wheels in return for a consideration, escalated beyond anything that had been contemplated. Greed is a very powerful incentive, and so is security. People who have grown accustomed to their creature comforts will often do anything within their power to avoid losing them. It begins in the cradle. Try taking a rattle away from a baby and see what happens. Instinctively the grip tightens.
‘The situation a few years ago when Europe – the whole of the Western world – suddenly found itself short of oil was very different to what it is now. We had grown accustomed to turning on the heat whenever we felt cold. Hot water poured from our taps. Engineers designed bigger and better cars powered by fuel which gushed out of our petrol pumps. It was there. It would always be there.
‘When all that suddenly disappeared for a brief while there was panic. Queues formed at garages. In America men were shot for the sake of a gallon of essence. People began to hoard coal and oil. Orders went out to take immediate action. Those we wouldn’t normally have been seen dead with were suddenly courted as friends. Nothing was too much trouble for them.
‘No doubt when the Grosse Légume first came on the scene instructions were issued by someone, somewhere, that he was to receive the very best of treatment. Doors would be opened; his every wish pandered to. And when he expressed an interest in food, what better place to send him to than Les Cinq Parfaits? If the Parfaits objected, so much the worse for them. Bureaucracy wields a very heavy bludgeon when it comes to the renewal of licences. It also moves very slowly and is resistant to change. Those original orders were never rescinded.’
‘And when the Grosse Légume expressed an interest in the pupils at the Institut des Beaux Arbres?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse remained coldly unhelpful. ‘Did bureaucracy again turn a blind eye?’
The Director gave a sigh. ‘Different people have different standards, Aristide.’
He stood up and crossed to the window, gazing down at the slate-grey rooftops of the seventh arrondissement. To the right lay the Hôtel des Invalides, to the left the huge mass of the Eiffel Tower; on the hill beyond, the white confection of the Sacré Coeur stood out in the sunlight.
‘Two and a half million people are at work out there. At work and at play, engaged in the sheer business of living. In the Ile de France ten million. In the whole of France, over fifty-three million. Men, women,
old people, children, babies; French, Moroccans, Algerians, Portuguese; Catholics, Jews, Protestants, Moslems. Perhaps, for those who were involved at the time, those who had been charged with the task of humouring the whims of the Grosse Légume, there was no choice – the scales were too heavily weighted in his favour; fifty-three million to one. Perhaps in the beginning it was a simple case of minor corruption. We shall probably never know.’
‘It does not excuse it, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse stubbornly.
‘No, Aristide.’ The Director turned away from the window. ‘It does not excuse it. It merely explains it. I do not agree, nor do I entirely disagree. I was not in the position of having to make a decision. It is like asking someone if they approve or disapprove of transplanting the heart of a baboon into a child. If it is someone else’s child they will most likely get hot under the collar and say no. If it is their own child the chances are they will say yes. It was probably an on-the-spot decision, and once that decision had been made there was no going back.’
‘A wrong does not easily become a right, Monsieur. Two, still less. There were many wrongs to follow. Nine at the last count.’
The Director shrugged. ‘The second time was that much easier, the third probably a matter of little moment. By then it would have become a game; a matter of mechanics. The Department of Dirty Tricks were called in to help, and to them it was an exercise, a chance to flex their muscles and to pit their wits against others – it didn’t really matter who – they do not have their title for nothing. The school was taken over; the original ski instructors replaced by their own men; the Grosse Légume made a patron. His visits to both Les Cinq Parfaits and the Institut des Beaux Arbres became annual events; a chance to restock his larder, so to speak. He has, as you probably gathered, a very sweet tooth; plus a taste for blondes, preferably young and Anglo-Saxon. He likes their fresh complexions and they are more docile than some of the Latin races. At the Institut he was guaranteed an inexhaustible supply.’
‘Why did he not go to Britain in that case?’
‘Have you ever tried to smuggle a schoolgirl through the British Customs, Pamplemousse? They are not noted for their sympathetic approach to such matters. Besides, it is a small island. They lack certain of our advantages; space, mountains, borders … It was very much simpler to get them over here first, and the very fact of their being away from home had many other advantages.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sat in silence for a moment or two. Reaching down with his hand he sought solace in the warmth and comfort of Pommes Frites’ left ear. He suddenly felt very tired and dispirited and for no particular reason he thought again of Albert Parfait. That made him even sadder.
‘And the radiators of France, Monsieur? What of them?’
The Director eyed Monsieur Pamplemousse uneasily. He sensed from his tone of voice the need to tread a delicate line. ‘That is not for me to comment on, Aristide. No doubt the Minister responsible will have more to say on the subject when he sees you. It is, in any case, a rapidly changing situation. I am told that by 1990, seventy per cent of all our energy will come from nuclear sources. We are rich in hydro-electric power. Beneath the Pyrénées near Pau lies the largest deposit of natural gas on the continent of Europe waiting to be tapped. Solar energy is already being harnessed and fed into our National Grid. Each year there is less and less need to pander to the grosses légumes of this world.’
‘And in the meantime, Monsieur?’
‘In the meantime, Pamplemousse, we must hope for mild winters. What has happened is over and done with. Life doesn’t stand still. Tomorrow’s problems are already waiting in the wings. The Grosse Légume will have to do his “shopping” elsewhere in future. In France he is persona non grata. Such a situation will not be allowed to occur again.’
‘And what about his past shopping?’
‘Moves are being made; pressures exerted behind the scenes. The government will not be idle.’
‘And what will happen to the Institut des Beaux Arbres?’
‘Questions, Pamplemousse, questions. I think you will find that as from today the Institut is “under new management”. The “ski instructors” will be replaced by the genuine article. Its pupils will remain untarnished – at least until they go out into the world.’
The Director waved aside the problems. They were for others to solve. ‘You still haven’t answered my question. What led you there in the first place?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter carefully before replying. Luck, he supposed. Luck, and a certain amount of tedious spadework. Attention to detail. He would like to have added a touch of Holmesian deduction, but it had been more a matter of being in the right place at the right time, as was so often the case. Plus, of course, Pommes Frites’ temporary indisposition.
The Director glanced down at the huge bulk beside Monsieur Pamplemousse’s chair. ‘I trust he is fully recovered?’
‘Absolument, Monsieur.’ Pommes Frites’ breakfast that morning had been of gargantuan proportions. He’d had a lot of catching up to do. ‘Had I not gone in search of him I would not have encountered the doudounes.’
‘Ah, yes, the doudounes.’ The Director perked up. ‘I must say your red herring about looking for an illiterate female compositor with large doudounes was a masterly stroke, Pamplemousse. It had us all fooled. As a means of diverting attention away from your own activities it worked like a dream. Here at Headquarters, people were running around in ever-decreasing circles. Lists were compiled; descriptions circulated. The print unions were consulted; Interpol alerted. A photokit picture was painstakingly constructed, built up from the brief details at our disposal.’ He reached down and opened one of his desk drawers. ‘What do you think of this, Aristide?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took a 20 x 25cm print from the Director and held it up to the light. The face looking back at him bore little resemblance to Fraülein Brünnhilde. She would not be at all pleased if she saw it. As for the rest – someone had had a field day.
‘I would not like to meet such a person on a dark night, Monsieur,’ he said.
The Director held out his hand. ‘Blown up out of all proportion, eh, Pamplemousse?’ Pleased with his own joke, he replaced the photograph in his desk drawer.
For a moment Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to say more, but only for a moment. A promise was a promise. That apart, he had a feeling it would provoke snide references to past cases; the affaire at La Langoustine involving Madame Sophie and the gonflables in particular. He could almost hear the Director’s comments. ‘There are those who would say you are developing a distressing penchant for inflatables, Pamplemousse. Were you by any chance frightened by some balloons when you were small?’
Outside, a clock began to chime. They both looked at their watches automatically. It was mid-day.
‘There is a lot to digest, Aristide.’ The Director reached for his telephone. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I have asked Madame Grante to join us for a pre-déjeuner apéritif.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. ‘Is that strictly necessary, Monsieur? I can explain the second dent in the other wing. As for the picnic, I agree it was somewhat elaborate, but there were good reasons …’
‘The second dent, Pamplemousse?’ The Director put his hand over the receiver. ‘It must have been a very wide road sign.’
‘I had another encounter, Monsieur. With a tree. Were he able to talk, Pommes Frites would bear witness that I was not to blame.’
‘Ah!’ It was hard to tell from the tone of the Director’s voice whether he was registering understanding or resignation. A pained look came over his face. ‘No, no, Madame Grante. It is not necessary to bring the appropriate forms with you. It can all be gone into later. This is a purely social occasion.
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ he said with a sigh as he replaced the receiver. ‘She is not a bad woman and she has a difficult job to do. I sometimes feel, Aristide, that she labours under the impression that wh
ile she is slaving away at her desk all day others like yourself are living a sybaritic life out in the field.’
‘A gross misapprehension, Monsieur.’
The Director rose to his feet and crossed the room to a cupboard at the far end immediately below the portrait of Le Guide’s founder, Hippolyte Duval. ‘I know that, Pamplemousse. You know it. But given the size of your present claims, claims that I am sure can be fully justified in the fullness of time, I feel a little P.R. would not come amiss.’ Opening the door of a concealed refrigerator he withdrew a bottle.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at it in awe. Even from the other side of the room the contents were immediately recognisable.
‘Taste-buds on the alert as ever, Aristide!’ The Director looked pleased. ‘I have not forgotten my promise. It is the Château d’Yquem ’45.’ Placing the bottle carefully on the cupboard top, he unfolded a white napkin and made ready a corkscrew and three tulip-shaped glasses. ‘It is a long time since I last tasted it.’ Holding the glasses up to the light in turn to make sure they were scrupulously clean, he felt the bottle again. ‘I hope it is not too cold.’
A knock at the door heralded the arrival of Madame Grante. In response to the Director’s bidding she entered and gazed around the room, registering in one brief, all-embracing glance both its occupants and the array of drinking implements on the cupboard top. She bestowed on the former a thin-lipped, wintry smile. It was not, reflected Monsieur Pamplemousse, the kind of smile that would have raised the temperature of the wine had it been pointed in that direction; rather the reverse. Pommes Frites opened one eye and finding it greeted by a disapproving sniff, hurriedly closed it again.
‘Ah, Madame Grante! How good to see you.’ The Director’s attempt to inject a note of bonhomie into the proceedings was not entirely successful. Nervousness was apparent in his voice. ‘Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. I was just saying to Aristide that it is time we saw more of you.’