by Michael Bond
The whole was surrounded by ancient ivy-covered stone walls, recessed in places for ornaments. From where he was sitting it was hard to tell what lay immediately behind them.
One thing was certain. The Director had a problem on his hands if he was hoping to get his negatives back by devious means. The place was like a fortress.
‘I still think it is an extraordinary coincidence that you should be at the studio yesterday evening,’ said Madame Chavignol when they were alone again. ‘Do you often go?’
‘It was my first visit.’
‘Well, then…’
‘Perhaps it was meant,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply.
Catching her looking at him he elaborated. ‘Who is to say what is a coincidence and what is preordained?’
‘Who indeed?’ said Madame Chavignol thoughtfully.
At least she seemed to have no idea of his connection with Le Guide. There was no reason why she should of course, but it made his task easier. Having said that, the plain truth was he had no idea where to lead the conversation. It was all very well for the Director, sending him off to spy out the territory. But having established a bridgehead as it were, what next?
He was acutely aware of her surveying him across the top of her champagne glass. Her long legs were crossed, the upper one moving slowly up and down like a metronome. It was a well-known syndrome – he had come across it before. As ever he couldn’t help being reminded of the offshore oil derricks common to the West Coast of California; inexorable, regular, hypnotic, like the pecking ducks that had been all the rage in souvenir shops at one time.
Under different circumstances he might have suspected her of doing it on purpose, but it didn’t feel that way. It was hard to tell what was going on behind those dark glasses. If anything she seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts, just as he was with his.
It was hard to picture her sitting on top of a washing machine; those same elegant legs encircling Monsieur Leclercq, drawing him ever closer towards her; the Director holding on like grim death as the motor gathered speed. But then that was often the case with other people’s peccadilloes. The older he got the more he found nothing surprised him any more.
‘What are you thinking?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse came to his senses with a start. She would probably be mortified if he told her the truth. Concentrate Pamplemousse!
‘May I call you Aristide?’ she continued. ‘I can’t keep calling you by your surname. Besides, you don’t look at all like a grapefruit.’ Her voice was soft and low. Perhaps she was musical after all.
‘Please do.’
‘Your name was in all the journaux this morning,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘And your photograph. They all seemed to think it was something of a coincidence too. I gather you were very famous during your time with the Sûreté. One of them likened you to a dog with a bone. You never gave up.’
‘The media always fasten on these things,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It gives an added edge to their stories. You shouldn’t pay too much attention to them…’ He didn’t know whether to call her Madame or use her full title.
She solved the problem for him. ‘Please call me Claudette. It was a little joke Claude and I had. He always called me his “little Claudette”.’
When she smiled her teeth were flawless. Small, regular and flawless, they lit up her face. He wondered how many people she had dug them into over the years. The Director clearly wasn’t the only one by a long chalk.
‘I call my wife “Couscous”,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘When we first met I took her out to dinner one evening. It was on the fringes of the 18th and all we could find were middle eastern restaurants. It became a joke and somehow it stuck.’
‘There you are,’ said Claudette. ‘Talking of bones…’ She picked up the phone again and issued an order.
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt himself warming to her.
She replaced the receiver. ‘May I ask you something?’
‘Of course…’
‘Everything happened so suddenly; I don’t know which way to turn. It isn’t that I don’t trust the police, but… I have never before felt so alone…’
He had an inkling of what she was going to say, but it all came out in a rush.
It never rained but what it poured. It was the third time he’d been asked to take on the case in as many hours. It seemed to him that everyone wanted to use him for their own ends.
In the case of the journal it was a straightforward business proposition; a desire to steal a march over their rivals along with the added bonus of all the publicity that would go with it. With Monsieur Leclercq it had been the reverse; fear of publicity was undoubtedly at the bottom of it; fear of the effect it would have on Le Guide and on his personal reputation should the photographs be revealed, not to mention the fact that his life at home wouldn’t be worth living.
Madame Chantal Leclercq had a reputation for keeping her husband on a very short lead. There had been the occasion when he had indulged in a brief dalliance with an English au pair called Elsie. She had soon put a stop to that!
And now came the third offer. It was understandable that Claudette should want to get to the bottom of her husband’s murder, but it was early days. Perhaps she was simply clutching at straws.
He was saved giving an immediate answer by the arrival of the first course: chicken consommé, to which some well ripened chopped tomatoes had been added at the time of clarifying. The skins must have been left on, for it was a delicate pink colour. Served cold in a cup, it was deliciously refreshing; fully worthy of a Stock Pot in Le Guide.
‘Superb!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse signified his approval as he dabbed at his lips with the napkin.
‘Merci. Yang is an absolute marvel. He came at the same time as Yin. I call them Yin and Yang because that is the way they are. Yin, as you have seen, is dark and can be very negative at times. Yang, the chef, is bright and positive. He helps… helped my husband with his recipes for the programme.’
Created them more like it, if this soup is anything to go by, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. There was a confidence about the dish that showed a master hand at work.
Along with more champagne, a bottle of Chateldon water appeared.
‘And yesterday’s dish – the single oyster – that was Yang’s idea?’
‘No, that was entirely Claude’s doing. Normally the routine was that we would have lunch together and he would go to the studios later in the day. All the technical rehearsals and run-throughs took place with a stand-in during the morning and early afternoon. He was brought up in the tradition of the stage and he liked to keep things as fresh as possible. That was another reason for having an audience – he was at his best with a spontaneous reaction.’
The first course was followed by lobster salad; the lobster cut into small pieces and mixed in with equal portions of diced cucumber and brown rice.
The cucumber was crisp, having been well salted and drained. Seasoned with an olive oil and vinegar dressing, it had been lightly peppered and sprinkled with finely chopped chervil. The brown Italian rice had been cooked in chicken stock and seasoned with grated nutmeg. The whole had been garnished with a sprinkling of chopped black olives.
A white Meursault accompanied the dish. He tried to catch the label, but it was covered by a napkin. He guessed at a Lafon. Unrefined, yet splendidly elegant.
‘Is the wine your chef’s choice too?’
Claudette nodded. ‘I shall be sorry to lose him,’ she said wryly.
‘Will that be necessary?’
‘I doubt if he will want to stay on just for me. Who knows? He may wish to open his own restaurant. I know someone who may be able to help him.’
I bet you do, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘How long has he been with you?’
‘Long enough for me to know him as well as I know the next person.’
‘Did he have anything to do with the preparation of the oyster?’
‘He wouldn’
t do such a thing if that’s what you are thinking. I would trust him with my life.’
And you, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse again, must be a Leo to be so sure of yourself.
‘What happened yesterday afternoon? You followed the same routine?’
‘Yesterday there was even less to do. Claude didn’t go in until much later than usual. As I say, he only had the single oyster to take with him. The seaweed was provided by the studio.’
A sudden breeze funnelling through neighbouring buildings caused a slight downdraft and as the leaves began to rustle he saw what looked like a minotaur peering at him from behind a colonnade. A bird pecking at a piece of bread took flight, carrying what was left in its beak.
Claudette gave a shiver. ‘At least it meant we had more time together. Perhaps you are right when you say some things are meant. I cannot believe it was simply a coincidence, any more than your being here today is. That is why I feel I need your help. You are so much more thorough than the police. They hardly asked any questions.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘Everyone has their methods. I am a Capricorn. Capricorns may take their time, but they get there in the end.’
The meat course was compote of baby rabbit in vegetable aspic, along with mushroom, button onions, tiny carrots and herbs – he detected tarragon, chervil and chives.
The gelée itself had been well clarified; clear and sparkling, it kept its shape without being at all rubbery.
With it came red Bordeaux. A Château Pichon-Longeville Baron ‘90. He wondered if Claudette always lunched as well, or whether she was putting on a special display for his benefit. Obviously it must be the former since he had arrived unannounced. The loss of her husband certainly hadn’t affected her appetite.
He was longing to get at the notebook he kept concealed in the right leg of his trousers for just such occasions. The whole thing was such an unexpected bonus. If Yang did open a restaurant it could be a welcome addition to Le Guide; a feather in his own cap for being first with the news.
‘May I offer you a cup of drinking chocolate?’
Once again she seemed to be reading his thoughts. ‘I follow the Montignac method of keeping fit. Three good meals a day, with nothing in between. Don’t totally give up what you really crave for, but enjoy it in moderation. Chocolate being his particular weakness, he manages to include it in his regime. He maintains it is good for the digestion. Provided it is over 70% pure cocoa, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily, then went on: ‘But cooking can also be an art; a matter of inspiration, a performance. It is like acting. In a world that is populated by countless millions of people, some actors have only to utter a few words and you know at once who it is.
‘Chefs speak with their food. Their world has an infinite variety of ingredients, but there are the select few who are able to combine them in such a way that their voice is immediately recognisable. That is where actors have the advantage. Their voices can be recorded; great meals are things of the moment; created only to be consumed.
‘I am not surprised your chef is Japanese. Up to now it has been more a case of French chefs spending time in the Orient. Fusion cookery is now the current buzzword. There is no reason why there shouldn’t be a movement in the opposite direction: Japanese chefs coming over here and taking us on at what we believe to be our home ground.’
‘You seem very knowledgeable on the subject.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse realised he had better soft-pedal his connection with food. Not for the first time his enthusiasm was getting the better of him. A few minutes earlier he had been racking his brains trying to think of a way of turning the conversation to suit his own purposes, now he had taken it up another blind alley.
Claudette did it for him. Raising her sunglasses until they rested on top of her head, she leaned forward, gently touched his knee and gazed into his eyes.
‘I shall miss Claude’s voice.’
Her eyes were green. Arguably the deepest green he had ever seen. He wondered if she wore coloured contact lenses. If that were the case, combined with the unusually dark glasses it was a wonder she found her way around at all.
‘You don’t have to answer now. But… please think it over. Let me have your card, then at least I shall have someone to call on if I need help…’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t carry one.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse had a mental picture of Doucette answering the phone and his reply was automatic. All too late he remembered he had produced his card at the gate, but Claudette appeared not to notice.
For a moment he thought she was about to cry. Then, as swiftly as she had moved towards him she withdrew her hand from his knee.
There was a crash as the bottle of wine went flying.
‘Mon Dieu!’ Grabbing hold of the napkin he began dabbing at his trousers, but it was already too late; he could feel the liquid soaking into them. His first thought was for his precious notebook; his second for the Pichon-Longueville. His third, he had to admit, was for Madame Chavignol.
‘Forgive me!’
‘Tant pis,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Never mind.’
‘But I do mind!’
So vivid had been Monsieur Leclercq’s description of his indiscretions, the possibility flashed through Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind that the whole thing might be a ploy with a visit to the laundry-room in mind. He immediately rejected the thought as without the slightest hesitation she picked up the phone and called for help.
Within seconds Yin came running armed with a fresh roll of paper towel.
‘Please to come with me,’ he said interpreting his mistress’s hurried instructions.
‘Take your time!’ Claudette set about clearing away the pieces of broken glass. She seemed genuinely mortified.
Transported upstairs in double quick time and finding himself in what appeared to be the master bedroom, Monsieur Pamplemousse was quick to take advantage of the situation. It was an ill wind that blew nobody any good.
Having been shown the en-suite bathroom, he dismissed Yin and as soon as he heard the door close behind him, removed his shoes, socks and trousers and set off on a quick tour of the bedroom.
Two king size beds dominated the room. A brief inspection of a cupboard with sliding doors running the length of one wall failed to reveal any nuns, with or without their habits. There were certainly no transformers! So much for Claudette’s tale of woe regarding her marital problems!
He turned his attention to the wall behind the beds. Between the two there was a cabinet, the top of which acted as a shelf for bedside lights, and inside, behind glass doors, there was a row of identical books, bound in tooled leather and all in pristine condition, rather as though they had been bought by the yard to decorate a film set. They looked as though they had never been opened, and perhaps never would be.
Higher up the wall hung a large painting. It was in a completely different style to any of those he’d seen downstairs.
Oil on canvas, it was signed by an artist called John Bratby. Even though the subject’s forehead had been rendered a deep purple, it was clearly an impression of Claude Chavignol – the more so the further away you were. Perhaps he had been in a bad mood at the time, for there was something funny about the eyes. Not only were they looking in different directions, but they didn’t seem to be following him around the room as eyes in portrait paintings normally did.
It was that more than anything that led him to feel behind the canvas. His fingers encountered a large metal plate. He didn’t try moving it in case it was magnetic, set to trigger an alarm should anyone try to remove it before it was disarmed. He guessed the safe behind it must have a coded combination lock. There wasn’t room for anything else.
Quickly returning to the bathroom in case anyone came in, Monsieur Pamplemousse examined his trousers. Hastily removing his precious notebook before the liquid penetrated its pages, he placed it on top of a radiator for safekeeping.
Looking around the room a
nd seeing his reflection multiplied a hundred fold in the mirrored walls and ceiling, it was hard to escape the uncanny feeling that the world was somehow closing in on him. Perhaps it was yet another manifestation of Monsieur Chavignol’s tastes.
Undoing his shirt cuffs, he looked around to see where to turn on the basin tap, only to discover it came on automatically when he put his hands under the outlet. The sink plug sank gently into place as soon the water reached the correct temperature.
At the same time stereophonic strains of The Blue Danube issued from concealed loudspeakers.
Standing over the basin sponging his trousers with cold water, lulled into a state of euphoria by the music, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his heart going out to Claudette.
He still hadn’t got the measure of her. It wasn’t that he disbelieved the Director’s story – he could hardly have dreamt the whole thing – but her remorse at having spilt the wine over him had been palpable, and she had unhesitatingly taken immediate action. There had been no question of allowing him to brush it aside.
Underneath it all she could be a woman in need of help; vulnerable and alone. Possibly when she went to bed at night and looked at herself in the mirror she was like millions of others the world over, wishing things were different. Women always did. All the ones he had known, anyway. Doucette worried about her nose. Others dreamed of being taller, shorter, thinner, fatter, bigger breasted, smaller breasted; anything but what they were. Magazines devoted their pages to such problems.
It was hard to picture what Claudette might want to change. Not knowing might even be a worry in itself. Sometimes beauty had its drawbacks.
Hanging his trousers over a heated rail to dry, he hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to take advantage of a pair of ‘his’ and ‘hers’ bathrobes hanging on the wall. Unable to make up his mind, he pushed the door open slightly to make sure the coast was clear, and found the room in darkness. Quite likely the light went off automatically if it was left unoccupied for any length of time. Given all the electronic gadgets there were around, it might even come on again as soon as he went back in.