by Michael Bond
Remembering the bedside lights, Monsieur Pamplemousse set off in what he hoped was the right direction.
He hadn’t gone very far when he trod on something soft. Reaching down to disentangle whatever it was clinging to his toes, he froze as his hand met up with what felt remarkably like another foot, patently not his own.
Momentarily blinded by the sudden glare of a spotlight that came on somewhere in front of him, he jumped back as though he had been shot, and as his gaze travelled upwards it encountered a familiar head lying on a pillow of the bed to his right.
Wishing now that he hadn’t left his trousers in the bathroom he instinctively made a grab for the nearest object.
Relieved of her bed cover, Claudette sat up, her arms outstretched invitingly.
Monsieur Pamplemousse backed away. All too clearly his suspicions as to what she may or may not have been wearing beneath her trousers when he first followed her through the house had been rendered academic.
Not that he had time to ponder the matter. The next moment she was on him; fighting, screaming, scratching like an unleashed tiger. And if her cries of ‘Non, non, non,’ seemed singularly inappropriate under the circumstances, there was no time to dwell on that either. It felt as though he was engaged in a life and death struggle.
Busying himself on the floor below with the remains of the rabbit in aspic – some of the best he’d tasted in a long time – Pommes Frites pricked up his ears. He realised to his shame that he hadn’t been concentrating quite as much as he might have done on what was going on around him.
True, he’d heard a crash, and then a few minutes after that he had seen his master go past accompanied by the man who had brought him his lunch. One or other of them had left a trail of drips behind. At first glance it had looked like blood, but a brief investigation established the fact that it was wine. Rather a good one in his opinion.
While he was savouring it a second figure had gone past, rather faster than the first two.
Something – it could have been a distant cry – told him his master was once again in trouble.
Following the smell of perfume, he tore out of the room and bounded up a flight of stairs two at a time.
Even when the scent came to an abrupt halt outside a door on the first floor he wasn’t thrown. Grasping the handle between his teeth he turned it smartly in a clockwise direction until it would go no further, then gave a push with his right paw.
As it swung open his worst fears were confirmed. Bereft of his trousers, shirt hanging from one arm, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked in a sorry state.
It was no time for niceties. Without a moment’s hesitation Pommes Frites hurled himself into the fray. The outcome as he landed, a paw on each shoulder of his master’s assailant, was a foregone conclusion.
As the whole ensemble toppled over, ending up in a confused heap on the floor, he opened his mouth and prepared to deliver the coup de grâce.
The response, when it came, was eminently satisfactory: short, sharp and to the point; the accompanying shriek, more one of outrage than of pain, a compliment both to Pommes Frites’ courage in the midst of danger and to his self-control when staring temptation in the face.
Chapter Five
‘I shall have to stop going to the laverie in the Rue Caulaincourt!’ said Doucette crossly. She held up a barely recognisable item of clothing. ‘Just look at this shirt. Two minutes in the spin drier and there’s not a single button left!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse avoided asking if there had been any buttons on it to start with. Remembering the state it had been in, he strongly suspected the answer would be no. The manner in which it had been torn from his body was not the kind of test normally favoured by consumer magazines.
‘I should have complained at the time,’ continued Doucette. ‘Except those places are all the same. There’s never anyone around when you need help. They’re full of people gazing into space, waiting for something to happen. It’s like entering a state of limbo.’
‘Washing machines are responsible for a great many evils in this world,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘If only they could talk, some of them would have a sorry tale to tell.’
Doucette ignored the remark. ‘I can’t understand it,’ she persisted. ‘It isn’t as though the cotton needed renewing. I’m always careful to check it when I do the ironing.’
Searching in her bag, she produced another screwed-up ball of cloth. ‘As for your trousers… they look as though they’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards with you inside them. I won’t ask where you’ve been!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse offered up a silent prayer of thanks to his Guardian Angel, whoever it might be.
‘That reminds me,’ continued Doucette. ‘Monsieur Leclercq was on the phone while you were out with Pommes Frites. He wants to see you. It sounded urgent as usual.’
‘I expect he wants to talk about the soufflé omelette you made me two nights ago, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, trying to steer the conversation into calmer waters. ‘I was telling him all about it – or trying to. It is hard to describe something which is really beyond description; the pleasure to be gained from the mathematical precision of the criss-cross lines imprinted by the poker on the omelette’s surface; the mouth-watering lightness of the inner texture; the taste of the rose-petal jam… I would hazard a guess that it was made from Gloire de Dijon. Everything about it was sheer perfection. I daresay Madame Leclercq would like the recipe.’
‘I daresay pigs might fly,’ said Doucette. ‘I can’t picture her slaving over a hot stove. Anyway, he sounded upset about something. He wants you in his office as soon as possible.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sighed. ‘It was supposed to be my week off.’
‘The devil also finds work for idle hands,’ said Doucette pointedly.
At least he looks after his own, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, making good his escape before any more questions were asked. Once Doucette got the bit between her teeth there was no knowing where things would end up.
On the other hand, the same could be said of the Director. It was a wonder he hadn’t been on the phone before. He must have arrived in his office rather later than usual for some reason. Perhaps his researches had taken him out of Paris.
Threading the Deux Chevaux through the tortuous maze of one-way streets leading down to the Place Clichy, he went over the previous day’s events in his mind.
After making good his escape from the Chavignol residence, he had taken refuge in the tiny gardens of the Square Samuel-Rousseau, marshalling his thoughts as he dried out while Pommes Frites kept watch.
His encounter with Claudette had been a mind-boggling experience; one he wouldn’t wish to repeat in a hurry. The Director had not been exaggerating. Once she got going she was like a woman possessed. There had been no stopping her. He told himself he should be thankful for small mercies; at least she didn’t have a spin drier concealed in her boudoir.
The last of the summer flowers were still in bloom and with only an occasional solitary figure entering or leaving the Basilique Sainte Clotilde at the far end of the garden to disturb the peace, he had gradually come back down to earth again.
His recovery lasted all of thirty seconds. His heart missed a beat as a sudden thought struck him.
Wondering whether to try and reach Monsieur Leclercq on his mobile, he remembered the Director saying he had another appointment. It was a busy time in the office. Preparations for next year’s guide were already getting into their stride and he was probably on his way to one or other of the eighteen restaurants in France singled out by the computer for the possible accolade of three Stock Pots.
‘A hard job,’ he was fond of saying, ‘but someone has to do it.’
With most people it would have been meant as a joke, but in Monsieur Leclercq’s case it was a serious statement of fact, and he had the waistline to prove it.
A quick call to Véronique confirmed his reading of the situation, and having persuaded her to pu
t him through to the Director’s personal voice mail, he had left a short message containing the single word Estragon. Known only to a select few, it was Le Guide’s code word for an emergency, to be used only in extreme cases.
His second call had been to an ex-colleague from his days in the Sûreté. That, too, had been somewhat less than satisfactory. It wasn’t that Jacques was unhelpful; non-committal was more the word. Clearly, for whatever reason, he hadn’t wished to discuss the matter of Claude Chavignol’s death over the phone.
Summing up, practically the only good thing to be said for the day was that at least Doucette was out when he arrived back home, and he had been able to change his clothes in peace. Now even that was in jeopardy. He wasn’t out of the wood yet.
Some twenty minutes later, having left his 2CV in the Esplanade des Invalides underground car park, Monsieur Pamplemousse set off across the Rue Fabert with Pommes Frites at his side, mentally bracing himself for his coming encounter with the Director.
Véronique seemed unusually subdued when he arrived on the top floor of Le Guide’s offices. ‘I’ve no idea what’s up,’ she whispered as she opened the door to the holy of holies, ‘but whatever it is – bonne chance!’
Briefly crossing himself as he entered the room, Monsieur Pamplemousse was just in time to catch the Director doing exactly the same thing behind his desk. Both hastily converted the movement into a tug of their right ear.
It was not a good omen; nor was Pommes Frites slow in registering the fact that his water bowl wasn’t in its usual place. Having looked round the room and drawn a blank, he assumed his phlegmatic expression and settled himself down on the floor to await developments. It seemed to him that his master might be in for a bad time.
It wasn’t long in coming.
‘What, Pamplemousse, is the meaning of this?’ demanded Monsieur Leclercq, pointing to his desk.
‘Alerted by your use of the word estragon on my voice mail, I arrived back from Vonnas this morning, not having had any petit déjeuner I might add, and what do I find awaiting me?’
Glancing down at the desk, Monsieur Pamplemousse caught sight of a half eaten croissant lying in the ashtray. All became clear. It was no wonder the Director was in a bad mood.
‘It is a long time since I had the good fortune to visit Vonnas, Monsieur, but I still remember their petit dejeuner; the basket of assorted brioches still warm from the oven, not to mention the freshly squeezed fruit juice and the home-made confiture. It was a wonderful start to the day. I fear the croissants in our canteen bear little resemblance to those of Monsieur Georges Blanc. To have had to forego them is indeed a tragedy.’
The Director stared at him for all of fifteen seconds. ‘Sometimes, Pamplemousse,’ he said at last, ‘and I say this more in sorrow than in anger, I think you live in a dream world. Would that you had the strength of mind to confine your fantasies to the upper reaches of the stratosphere where they belong, rather than act them out in real life.
‘Croissants, good, bad, or indifferent are the last things on my mind.
‘Yesterday morning, here in this very office, in good faith I unburdened myself. I told you things I have told no other person, not even my wife…
‘Especially my wife…’ he added hastily.
‘And what happened? No sooner had I turned my back than you were off round to Madame Chavignol. Pommes Frites too! Your appetites whetted, neither of you could wait. You are each of you as bad as the other. What one doesn’t think of, the other one does!’
‘With respect, Monsieur, it was you who suggested we went there in the first instance.’
‘Do not try to shift the blame, Pamplemousse,’ boomed the Director. ‘What took place while you were there is a prime example of history repeating itself.’
Pausing to shift the ashtray, he picked up a sheaf of glossy photographs and held them aloft.
‘Véronique informs me these were delivered early this morning by an oriental gentleman who refused to leave his name. He was under strict instructions to deliver them to me personally. It was only with great difficulty, and because I was late arriving, that she persuaded him otherwise. Fortunately he relented after she had given her word that no one else would open the package.
‘How Madame Chavignol knew you worked for Le Guide, goodness only knows.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse could have told him, but he wasn’t going to. It was only while sitting in the Square Samuel-Rousseau he realised to his dismay that in his haste to escape Claudette’s clutches he had left his notebook on her bathroom radiator. Fortunately the notes were of no value to anyone else for they were written in his own particular form of shorthand. However, it had Le Guide’s address in the front for return in case of loss. It wouldn’t have taken her more than a moment to put two and two together.
‘It is pas grave, Monsieur,’ he said, trying to make light of it.
‘Pas grave?’ repeated the Director. ‘Pas grave? It is little short of a catastrophe! These photographs are worse, far worse than the ones Pommes Frites took of you earlier in the year with that Russian school-teacher on the Antibes peninsular. They make that particular occasion look like a school outing.’
‘I suppose,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse thoughtfully, ‘in a sense that’s what it was.’
‘At least in those you were not shown sans vêtements,’ boomed the Director. ‘As I recall you were still wearing your trousers. If any of these pictures were to fall into the hands of the media who knows what will happen? They will have a field day.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shifted uneasily in his chair as he tried to get a glimpse of the photographs. All he could see was the ominous word COPIE stamped on the back of each one in red.
‘But there was no one else present, Monsieur. Unlike your own unhappy experience with Madame Chavignol in the wash-house, flash guns were conspicuous by their absence.’
‘Please don’t remind me, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Every time I drive past a laverie automatique it all comes flooding back to me. I have tried varying my route into the office, but they are everywhere. Paris seems to be full of them. Does no one send their washing to a blanchisserie any more?’
‘Only those who can afford it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse pointedly. It was like water off a duck’s back.
‘In any case,’ continued the Director, ‘if what you say is true, how do you account for these?’ He passed the photographs across his desk. ‘They look as though whoever took them was using a camera obscura. A singularly ill-named device since most of your salient parts are far from obscur. They stand out a mile in fact!’
‘It is kind of you to say so, Monsieur!’
Monsieur Leclercq controlled himself with difficulty. ‘This is no time for levity, Pamplemousse. You know perfectly well what I mean.’
Going through the pictures Monsieur Pamplemousse could see the Director had a point. The shadowy nature of the shots and the lack of definition meant only one thing; they had been taken by closed-circuit video cameras.
Viewed in sequence they provided a visual record of all that had happened from the moment he entered the bathroom to Pommes Frites’ arrival on the scene and beyond. The place must be alive with cameras. It also explained why the eyes in the painting had been pointing in different directions.
‘The one exception,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘is a group shot of you all lying in a heap on the floor. It appears to have been specially lit for the occasion.’
‘That can be explained, Monsieur. When I first saw Madame Chavignol in a state of déshabillage I was so taken by surprise my feet became entangled with the flex on her bedside lamp and in my rush to escape her clutches it fell to the floor.’
The Director eyed him sceptically. ‘You are sure it wasn’t the other way round, Pamplemousse? You weren’t bounding to her side?’
‘Quite sure, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse virtuously. ‘It was the last thing on my mind.’
‘And the photograph you are holding
in your hand,’ boomed the Director. ‘Why does that one appear to have been taken in some kind of rain storm?’
‘In a sense it was, Monsieur. The carpet in Madame Chavignol’s bedroom has – or rather had – an unusually thick pile, and in the course of time the inevitable happened. The heat from the lamp caused it to smoulder, and that in turn activated the sprinklers…’
Monsieur Leclercq sat in silence for a while, trying to picture it all. ‘It wasn’t your day, Aristide,’ he said at last.
Holding out his hand for the photographs, he flipped through them again.
‘Pommes Frites appears to be carrying out his task with unseemly relish,’ he said. ‘When he first appears on the scene he looks as though he is joining you in what I believe is known in some circles as a “gang bang”, although what other term might be appropriate in the circumstances is hard to imagine.’
‘He was coming to my rescue, Monsieur. After all, it is not for nothing that during his time in the Sûreté he was awarded the Pierre Armand Golden Bone Trophy for being sniffer dog of the year.’
‘I hope it wasn’t for doing what he appears to be doing in this picture,’ said the Director severely. He held up one of the photographs. ‘I assume Madame Chavignol did not offer the Sûreté her derrière for test purposes.’
‘Indeed not, Monsieur. I think on this occasion it was more in the nature of a preliminary reconnaissance.’
‘He certainly seems to be taking his time over it,’ said the Director, removing another photograph from the pile. ‘He’s still at it in this one.’
‘Pommes Frites is a perfectionist,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse proudly. ‘It is the same with everything he does. When it comes to helping others he is possessed of an inexhaustible supply of goodwill. Nothing is too much trouble. I think he was upset that he might have bitten Madame Chavignol’s derrière too hard by mistake. He was about to lick it better.’