Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines

by Michael Bond

  ‘It is an old saying but a true one, Aristide, “Never choose your women or your linen by candlelight”.

  ‘However, that is not the worst of the story. A few days later I received a bombshell in the mail. There was no note, just a photograph. Fortunately Chantal didn’t open it, for I need hardly tell you what it depicted.

  ‘My initial reaction was that it was a kind thought on the part of Madame Chavignol, but when I visited her and asked for the return of the negative she was a different person to the one who had unburdened herself to me only a few days before.

  ‘Do you know what she said?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head, although he had a shrewd idea.

  ‘“You men are all the same. You and all the others.” She even had the gall to laugh in my face and point towards the stairs. From all she said, I strongly suspect my picture is not the only one she has there. My guess would be that she keeps them in her boudoir. Doubtless in a safe.’

  ‘Alors!’

  The Director shuddered. ‘Alors! is right, Aristide.’

  ‘You mentioned earlier about running an idea up the flagpole,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, breaking the long silence. ‘If there is anything I can do…’

  Monsieur Leclercq’s face cleared. As if by magic the lines disappeared from his face as he rose and circumnavigated the desk.

  ‘I knew I could rely on you, Aristide!’ he exclaimed. ‘You have never let me down yet.’

  That hadn’t been quite what Monsieur Pamplemousse meant. He had a distinct feeling of impending doom.

  ‘I want the negative back,’ continued the Director. ‘And I want it back along with any other prints before the police get there.

  ‘Inevitably, given the circumstances, they will be going through Chavignol’s past life looking for clues as to who might be responsible for his murder. They will leave no stone unturned. Papers will be inspected, letters perused, photographs unearthed, fingers will be pointed…

  ‘You, of all people, Pamplemousse, should know that.’

  ‘I understand what you are saying, Monsieur. But I don’t see how I can possibly help.’

  ‘It is perfectly simple, Aristide. All you need do is find the person responsible for the demise of Monsieur Chavignol and the police will consider the matter closed. Then you will be able to break into the safe at your leisure.’

  It was Monsieur Pamplemousse’s turn to clutch at straws. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘my services are already bespoke. I have received an offer from a well-known journal.’

  ‘No man can serve two masters, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq severely. ‘It is written in the scriptures: Matthew 6:24.’

  That answered the question. Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to suggest that at the time of his writing the scriptures, probably laboriously carving them in stone, Matthew wasn’t working for Le Guide, nor in all probability had he ever met anyone quite like the Director, but clearly the subject was not up for discussion.

  Monsieur Leclercq rose to his feet. ‘I was thinking on the way in,’ he continued, ‘the whole sorry affair must have been a shock for Pommes Frites too… seeing you on the screen like that. Your wife was telling me all about it. It appears he thought you were trapped somewhere inside the receiver. I suggest you need to spend some quality time with him and I can think of no better way of making a start than the two of you taking a quiet stroll and offering your condolences to Madame Chavignol. At the same time you can familiarise yourself with the premises, perhaps picking up a few clues while you are there.’

  Seeing the look on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face, the Director clasped his shoulder.

  ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that given the presence of the boxes in the laundry room, and the expert way in which Madame Chavignol manoeuvred the appropriate one into position, she’d had plenty of practice at estimating her victim’s measurements over the years. The contents of her safe, if that is indeed where the photographs are kept, could rock the establishment to its very foundations.

  ‘I know this is supposed to be your week off, Aristide, but remember this: you are not doing it simply as a favour to me, you will also be doing it for France. It will not go unnoticed I can assure you.’

  Short of joining Monsieur Leclercq in singing the national anthem, there was really nothing more to be said.

  ‘I would come with you, Aristide, but…’

  But you can’t face seeing her again in the cold light of day, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘…I have another commitment,’ continued the Director, as though reading his thoughts. ‘Duty calls, I am afraid.’

  On the way out of the building Monsieur Pamplemousse met Véronique coming in. She had with her a carrier bag imprinted with the insignia of a well-known fashion designer.

  ‘Cheer up,’ she said. ‘And take care. I wouldn’t like you to end up in Madame Chavignol’s safe along with all the others.’

  Truly a man had no secrets from his secretary, even if there were times when he did have to pay dearly for the privilege. There was a price for everything in this world.

  Chapter Four

  It was past midday before Monsieur Pamplemousse found the address the Director had given him.

  Within sight of the top of the Eiffel Tower and yet to all intents and purposes a million miles away, it was typical of that part of Paris where ministries, museums and foreign embassies proliferate to such an extent that a casual passer by might be forgiven for thinking noone actually lived there.

  Yet that was far from being the case. Behind forbidding entrances all over the 7th there lay a closed world of ancient homes, former mansions, eighteenth century hôtels, and secret gardens; a throwback to the days of Napoleon, who had preserved the area partly in celebration of his military victories, but also with an eye to feathering his own nest by creating a new nobility under the guise of preserving continuity. Books galore had been written about them, but unless you happened to strike lucky and be passing by when their doors were open to allow passage in or out, or had the kind of wealth that opened them for you, few revealed themselves to strangers.

  He was about to make use of a heraldic knocker on a pair of heavy oak doors in a wall not far from the Basilique Sainte-Clotilde, when he noticed a discreet video entryphone let into the stonework to one side. Pressing a button elicited an almost immediate response.

  After a slight pause while whoever was at the other end digested his name and business, no doubt at the same time studying the card he held up to the lens (he purposely made sure his thumb covered any mention of Le Guide), a voice asked him to wait. Some half a minute or so passed before a buzzer sounded. It was followed by a muffled click from behind the nearest of the two doors.

  Signalling Pommes Frites to follow, Monsieur Pamplemousse pushed open a smaller inset door and went in. He almost expected to be greeted by a footman in full livery. Instead, as the door automatically closed behind them, another opened on the far side of a cobbled courtyard and a very small Asian in a white jacket emerged, beckoning them forward. He looked like the actor Peter Lorre in an early Mr. Moto film.

  Casting his eyes around as he went, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced up at the building. It was more like a country mansion than a town house: a well protected one at that! High up on the walls, strategically placed CCTV cameras covered the area he was in, leaving him feeling naked and vulnerable. The upper windows were protected by white shutters, whilst those on the ground floor had stout metal grills.

  To the left of the house there was a stable-block garage. The row of steel up-and-over doors was shut, as was another door, presumably a tradesman’s entrance, in a wall between the two buildings. The Facel Vega he had seen standing outside the studios the night before was parked alongside it. Someone must have moved fast. Perhaps they needed the space.

  In passing he seized the opportunity to take a closer look. Only one hundred and fifty-two had been built in the three years before the company went into liquidation and since m
ost of them went for export he might never see another. Comparing it to his own Deux Chevaux was like comparing chalk and cheese. Nearly four million of the latter had been made.

  The Excellence had an American Chrysler V8 6.3 litre engine, and with its armchair type front seat it was nothing short of decadence on wheels; for most of its life, the 2CV – a deckchair on wheels as some people called it – had been propelled by a simple 375cc engine. The one thing they had in common was that they were both products of the drawing board and both were idiosyncratic. At least his car was easy to climb in and out of; the Excellence with its pillarless construction might be sexy, but its doors had acquired an unhappy reputation for occasionally staying firmly shut when you wanted to get out.

  As he neared the main entrance to the house he noted the front door was as solid as those at the main gate. There would be no breaking through its panels in a hurry. Removing his coat before entering he had a fleeting glimpse of welded security pins on the inward opening hinges.

  One way and another, he knew all he wished to know for the time being. The 7th had a reputation for being the most closely guarded arrondissement in Paris; there were gendarmes everywhere. Jules Romain had hit the nail on the head when he called it “a capital within a capital”. To add so much security on top of what already existed seemed an unnecessary gilding of the lily; a belt and braces operation, but no doubt the Chavignols had their reasons.

  While the Japanese manservant relieved him of his coat, executing a series of bows as he backed away, a woman he took to be Madame Chavignol appeared further down the hall. Glancing briefly at a small pile of unopened letters on a table as she passed, she came forward to greet him, hand outstretched.

  ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse. It is kind of you to come. I hadn’t expected…’

  ‘It was the least I could do.’

  ‘But so soon…’

  Her hand felt cold rather than cool. She held on to his for a fraction of a second longer than seemed necessary while she scrutinised him. Then, letting go, she turned and motioned him to follow. He couldn’t help thinking that apart from dark glasses there was no question of her being in deep mourning.

  Nor was the flow of inconsequential chatter she kept up what he would have expected from a person in a state of shock. Or, perhaps it was. Perhaps he was doing her an injustice and it was some kind of defence mechanism at work.

  All the same, after the Director’s graphic revelations he was prepared for almost anything.

  From the length of her elegantly cut dark hair, he guessed she must be still in her early thirties. She was wearing a white shirt and black trousers – with very little, if anything, underneath either if he was any judge in the matter. The rest was a model of expensive understatement: Hermès belt, black suede mules; silver earrings, each with a single diamond set in the middle; she was coolness personified. A white gold brooch and a white gold Cartier wrist watch completed the ensemble.

  Although black predominated, it wasn’t exactly widow’s weeds.

  He caught a whiff of perfume. Expensively discreet would have been a fair description. And yet, he couldn’t help being aware of something else over-riding it; something much more mundane and very familiar. So familiar he couldn’t immediately put a name to it. Sandalwood? No – simpler than that. Almonds? He had almonds on the brain.

  Pommes Frites obviously noticed it too. Although, having registered it, he kept his thoughts to himself for the time being.

  Nor could it be said that her late husband was into counting his Euros. As she led the way towards the rear of the house by way of an enormous lounge, he took stock of his surroundings. At some time the room they were passing through had been stripped, a purist might say vandalised, of what must once have been all the trappings of an ornately furnished salon. The walls had the kind of sheen that only came from many applications of paint. The floor had been re-laid with hardwood, polished until you could see your face in it.

  Only the ceiling decorations had been left intact.

  Apart from the fact that there seemed to be two of everything, it reminded him of a Philippe Starck exhibition he and Doucette had once been to see.

  There were two enormous sofas – each large enough to seat a whole family; two mammoth plasma screen television sets; two chandeliers; two harps! What would anyone want with two harps? Madame Chavignol didn’t look the sort of person who would spend the long winter evenings perfecting her arpeggios.

  There were flowers everywhere: freshly cut lilies and iris in enormous vases; the kind of displays you normally only came across in three Stock Pot restaurants, or on yachts in the south of France during the season. A Hermès Birkin handbag left carelessly open on a table was something more than a fashion statement.

  Abstract paintings dotted the walls. A brief glance was enough. He knew what he liked, and on the whole it didn’t extend to large pieces of canvas that looked as though a child had ridden across them on its tricycle, having first passed through several trays of primary coloured paint. Many of them were unframed, although they had probably cost the earth.

  On a corner table just inside the door there was a sprinkling of statuettes and silver cups, and on the wall behind it a number of framed certificates. Presumably they all belonged to Monsieur Chavignol; show biz mementos. Somehow they summed everything up.

  It was all too perfect and unlived in, with not a sign of a book anywhere; sad in its way, as though the house and its contents had been left in the hands of a designer and the table was the only concession he had allowed the owner for his personal effects.

  Bringing up the rear and clearly feeling in need of a rest after their long walk, Pommes Frites paused by a thick pile rug and eyed it hopefully.

  Catching sight of him out of the corner of her eye, Madame Chavignol broke off for a moment. ‘Your dog looks thirsty. Does he prefer still or sparkling water?’

  ‘Given the choice, he prefers still.’

  ‘I will have Yin him bring some Evian.’

  Motioning Pommes Frites to remain where he was, Monsieur Pamplemousse followed her out onto a patio which at first sight was as immaculately tidy as the inside of the house. Concealed lamps dotted around the perimeter no doubt doubled as either heat, or movement-sensitive security lights by night. Through thick glass portholes let into the paving he could see an underground swimming pool, bathed in blue light.

  The scene beyond them was like a stage set, probably the work of the same interior designer. There was hardly a leaf out of place. The elegance of it all made his own herb collection seem very small fry, but at least his was a hands-on operation.

  He began to wish he had worn another suit, but then Monsieur Leclercq hadn’t given him the opportunity to go home and change.

  ‘How strange that my husband should die in your arms,’ said Madame Chavignol. ‘It must have been a shock to you.’

  ‘You saw it happen?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  She nodded. ‘Normally I would have been in the studio, but last night I chose to stay at home and watched it all on television instead. I don’t know if that made it worse – my not being there – but even if I had been I couldn’t have done anything. It was all over so quickly. It’s just… I know I shall always regret not being with him at the end.’

  Seating herself in a white painted lounge seat with matching cushions, she motioned him towards a more formal upright chair facing her. Between the two of them, but slightly to one side, there was a slatted garden table.

  As Monsieur Pamplemousse made himself comfortable he noticed two champagne glasses, one of which was still half full.

  ‘Forgive me. Have I called at an inconvenient moment?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She brushed his protest to one side. ‘It was all so sudden… the staff are shattered, of course. But they are carrying on as normal. Claude… my husband and I always tried to have lunch together. It was part of our routine.’

  Reaching down, she picked up a telephone, put through the order for Pommes Fr
ites’ water, then paused. ‘In fact…’ she looked at her watch, ‘since it is almost twelve-thirty, perhaps you will do me the honour of joining me?’

  It wasn’t what he had bargained on, but obviously it hadn’t occurred to her that he might refuse. It wasn’t so much an invitation as a command.

  ‘I imagine the police have been in touch with you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as she replaced the receiver.

  ‘They were here last night and again this morning. They are awaiting the report of the autopsy. Until that is done I can’t begin to make arrangements with a funeral director. But there seems little doubt as to the cause. They say it was cyanide.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered whether he should mention the offending oyster shell, but decided to play it by ear.

  ‘And you have no idea how it came about – or who might have been responsible?’

  Madame Chavignol shook her head. ‘None. Claude had his enemies, of course. Who doesn’t? That is especially true if you happen to be in the public eye. But as for deliberately poisoning him…’

  She waited a moment or two while the manservant appeared, filled both the glasses from a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal and began setting the table for two; stainless steel place mats – again in the shape of an interlocking double C – Christofle cutlery, Riedel glasses.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took the opportunity to take a closer look at the garden. Beyond the patio, sunlight filtered through the trees, illuminating a mixture of styles: freshly raked gravel paths, their curves contrasting with the straight lines of others made of old stone paving; little nooks and crannies housing unrestrained shrubs surrounded by clipped box hedging; old shrub roses and clematis planted alongside more formal beds.

  Barely audible soft music came from hidden loudspeakers. Fish played in a pool watched over by a pair of bronze herons. Other pieces of sculpture were dotted around; a rotunda here, a domed arbour made of distressed pinewood there.