Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines

by Michael Bond

‘Hmmm,’ said the Director sceptically. ‘He does seem to have a predilection for peoples’ nether regions. It is no wonder his eyes are permanently blood-shot. In any case, what was her naked derrière doing pointing towards the ceiling in the first place? It was asking for trouble.’

  ‘You can’t really blame Pommes Frites,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is in the nature of dogs. To them it is not unlike going behind the scenes at a theatre. Only there do you see the truth behind the masquerade.’

  ‘It is a good job we don’t all subscribe to that theory, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director. ‘I shudder to think what the streets of Paris would be like if we did. It is bad enough driving through the Bois de Boulogne at night…’

  ‘He was doing it with the best of intentions, Monsieur. If he hadn’t been there to defend me who knows what might have happened?’

  The Director glanced down at the floor and as he did so his gaze softened.

  ‘You are right, Aristide. Pommes Frites is a true friend and he has many fine qualities. Not only is he incorruptible and unflinching in the face of danger, but unlike many humans he is completely without guile. His heart is in the right place. There are times when I envy him his simple approach to life.’

  Sensing the worst was over Pommes Frites sat up and wagged his tail.

  The Director turned to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘What are we to do, Aristide?

  ‘Leave it to me, Monsieur. I will set the ball rolling in other quarters.’

  Monsieur Leclercq visibly brightened. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Aristide. All I ask is that you remember our motto – the three A’s. I trust you to place special regard to the last of them – Anonymat. If any of this were to get out it could mean curtains for us all.’

  As they took their leave Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if mentioning the delicious meal he’d had with Claudette would take the Director’s mind off the matter. The possibility of finding a new star in the ascendancy for a future edition of Le Guide might cheer him up. He decided to save it until later. There was a time and place for everything.

  Parking near the Quai des Orfèvres wasn’t easy, but then it never had been. Finding a space at long last in the Place Dauphine, Monsieur Pamplemousse let Pommes Frites out for a run in the tiny Square du Vert Galant before going any further.

  Waiting for him at the top of the steps, he gave an involuntary shiver. Despite the reflection of the sun’s rays off the golden dome of the Institut de France further along the Seine, he could feel the first hint of autumn in the air. The leaves on the chestnut trees in the square were already beginning to turn.

  But then, that corner of the Île de la Cité and the Conciergerie in particular, invariably struck a chill. Apart from Sainte Chapelle, with its stained glass windows, the centuries old buildings never lost their feeling of underlying menace. Today was no exception. They somehow underlined the Director’s words; adding weight to his worst fears.

  The ghost of Marie-Antoinette still lived on in the Palais de Justice, as did the ghosts of many others who had been incarcerated within its walls over the years. In the days before the revolution no one had been safe. It had been the police chief Sartine’s proud boast that “whenever three people speak to each other in the street, one of them will be mine.” During the Reign of Terror “justice” had been dispensed with the unremitting regularity of a supermarché check out.

  It had spawned its own vocabulary too; some of the phrases still existed to this very day. The interrogation room, also known as la chambre des aveux spontanés – the voluntary confession room, was still called la cuisine by some. Instead of spilling the beans as a criminal in America might do under pressure, suspects were seated at a table where they “ate the morsel”. Il se met à table et mange le morceau. It was a variation of what had gone on in the oldest tower of the Conciergerie, la tour Bonbec; the “tower of the heart eater” – the one who tells the cops what they want to hear.

  None of the 2,500 or so citizens carted off to the guillotine by the tumbrel between the beginning of 1793 and July 1794 could have dreamed that one day the Conciergerie would become a tourist attraction; still less could they have pictured people actually going there of an evening to attend concerts and wine tastings.

  Pommes Frites was clearly feeling the effect too. Peering gloomily at the waters of the Seine as a Bâteau Mouche went past at a rate of knots, he was rewarded by a burst of waving from the upper deck. One of the passengers threw him the end of a baguette, but it fell short and was carried away in the wash, so he hurried back to join his master.

  Together they made their way to No 36 – the entrance to the Police Judiciare.

  Once past the guard in his perspex box, they were soon in the thick of things and the mood passed. It was a long time since their last visit and it was worse than going back to Le Guide’s offices after a tour in the provinces. There was so much handshaking and reminiscing it was some while before they reached the second floor.

  The first big change Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed was that the Homicide Squad had become computerised with a vengeance. There were light grey boxes and screens everywhere.

  ‘Aristide,’ Jacques jumped to his feet as they entered his office. ‘And Pommes Frites! Ca va?’

  ‘Bien, merci. Et vous?’

  Handshakes exchanged, backs patted, Jacques pulled up a chair for his guest and then resumed his own seat behind the desk.

  ‘You look good – both of you. Don’t say it – I’ve put on weight!’ Caressing his stomach, he pointed to the screen. ‘That’s what comes of being wedded to a V.D.U.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse also noted Jacques was having trouble with his collar size. Normally a natty dresser, the top button of his shirt was undone and the tie halfway to being discarded altogether.

  ‘Times change,’ he said, ‘and there’s no going back.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ said Jacques. ‘You know what they say… to err is human, but to really foul things up you need a computer.

  ‘It’s a wonderful tool. But that’s all it is – a tool. If you’re here to tell me someone has just driven into the back of your car and you can give me his number, in less time than it takes to say sacré bleu I’ll be able to tell you all you need to know about the owner; where he lives, where he was born. On the other hand it won’t tell me who was at the wheel.

  ‘Ask any author. It’s better than all the pens and pencils, but it still doesn’t write books. As for saving paper…’ He pointed to his IN tray. ‘They don’t come with a manual any more. You have to print the instructions out yourself. It must save the makers a fortune in Euros.’

  Moving the mouse, Jacques stabbed at one of the keys and the computer emitted a shriek. It was followed in quick succession by a crash and the sound of an ambulance siren.

  ‘Two hundred and eight since nine o’clock.’ Jacques rubbed his hands together. ‘Not a bad morning’s work.’

  ‘It’s good to see you are keeping the flag flying,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Comme d’habitude,’ said Jacques cheerfully. He swivelled the slim-line screen round to face them. ‘It’s the latest craze. You have to see how many pedestrians you can knock down in a given time.

  ‘It used to be a Screen Saver. Then one of the backroom boys got to work modifying it. He’s thinking of going commercial.

  ‘I struck lucky soon after I came in this morning. There was this English tourist bus. It stopped on the Champs Élysées of all places to drop off the passengers. Drop off is right. They all got out the wrong side and went down like flies. Mind you, if it had been anywhere near a crossing I could have scored double!

  ‘Ten points for anyone on a pedestrian crossing. Fifteen if they have a pushchair.’

  ‘How about someone with a white stick?’

  Jacques stared at him. ‘Are you sick or something? It isn’t that easy. Do that and you lose ten points. If they have a guide dog that’s the end of the game.’

  ‘Isn’t having a Sherida
n tank equipped with armour-piercing weaponry weighing the odds a bit in your favour?’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Jacques defensively. ‘It’s every man for himself in this world.

  ‘Anyway, you must admit it’s better than getting hooked on games like Freecell. That’s what happened when we first got computerised. Everyone started reporting sick with eyestrain. I can’t tell you the number of man-hours we lost.

  ‘So…’ He returned the screen to its normal position. ‘I take it you are not here because someone tried to climb up your exhaust pipe, but to talk about the demise of our late friend, Monsieur Claude Chavignol.’

  ‘Any news?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt it was high time he tested the water. ‘If it’s easier out of the office perhaps you could fill me in over a lunch. That is if you can tear yourself away from mowing down innocent pedestrians.’

  Jacques looked at his watch. ‘I’m rapidly coming the conclusion there is no such animal. Anyway, perhaps it’s better if we talk up here. If you fancy a sandwich I’ll have some sent up.’

  ‘From the bar in the Place Dauphine?’

  ‘Where else?’ He picked up a phone.

  ‘In that case,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘tell them I’ll have the usual.’

  ‘There is, shall we say,’ continued Jacques, as he completed the order, ‘a certain apathy towards the case from on high. The consensus of opinion seems to be that whoever was responsible for Chavignol’s death not only did everyone here a good turn, but they saved the taxpayer and the government a mint of money into the bargain, so why rock the boat? There are even those who say he… or maybe she… ought to be given the Légion d’Honneur…’

  She? Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered. Statistically poison was more of a woman’s method.

  ‘Mind you, the boys in the vice squad are not best pleased. The truth of the matter is he’d been skating on their thin ice for a long time. The Brigade Mondaine has been building up a sizeable dossier and they were all set to pounce. They would have preferred to see him sent down for a good long stretch. Alors…

  ‘It was one thing when it was a case of consenting adults. Who cares what people do in their spare time – just so long as they keep it to themselves? But when it became a case of lock up your small daughters or your sons it was something else again. With some people sex is like a drug. The more they get the more they want. And the more they have the more they start looking around for some new sensation. They say even the Chavignol’s cat has left home with its tail between its legs.’

  ‘The mind boggles.’

  ‘The other day,’ said Jacques, ‘I read of an English train stopping somewhere in an isolated part of the country, and the passengers were treated to the spectacle of a farmer having it off with a goat would you believe?’

  ‘Ah, les anglais! Nothing defeats them!’

  ‘It pays not to turn your back on them,’ said Jacques darkly. ‘Anyway, with all those witnesses you’d think it was an open and shut case.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was let off with a caution. The police went to interview the goat and reported that it seemed perfectly happy. Their recommendation was that the passengers on the train be given counselling.’

  ‘So? What is the connection?’

  Jacques gave the classic see-saw motion with his right hand. ‘Because, and you know it as well as I do, things are never quite what they seem. To put it bluntly, as far as Chavignol is concerned there are those in high places not a million kilometres away who will sleep easier in their beds if a line can be drawn under the whole affair as of now. Look into it too deeply and you could be opening up a whole can of worms.

  ‘Anyway, apart from being there when it happened, what’s your interest in the matter? I see you had your photograph in this morning’s journaux again. Watering your herbs on the balcony this time.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse made a face. ‘Let us just say there are people – some of whom I happen to know are perfectly innocent – who are having sleepless nights over certain photographs that would be better destroyed. And I don’t mean that one.’

  Jacques shrugged. ‘I assumed as much. It is what I have heard too. But they could be anywhere … a safe deposit box … a bank vault … buried in the garden… who knows? Start any kind of search involving too many people and the media will be on to it like a shot. Once they smell a rat there’s no knowing where it will end.’

  ‘I know where they may be kept,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘You do?’ Jacques was suddenly all attention.

  ‘There is a safe in Madame Chavignol’s bedroom. Quite a sophisticated one.’

  ‘I won’t ask how you know.’

  ‘I wouldn’t tell you if you did,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Not for the moment anyway, but it would be good to see inside it…’ He broke off as there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Entrez!’ called Jacques.

  An elderly waiter entered carrying a tray above his shoulder. His face lit up at the sight of Jacques’ visitor.

  ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse!’ He could hardly contain his excitement as he put the tray down. ‘I saw you on television the other night. It was on in the bar. And I saw your picture in all the journaux. It is a long time since that happened.

  ‘Remember all that nonsense about those girls at the Folies? So what if you did take some photographs of them through a hole in the ceiling? I remember saying to the wife – I doubt if the girls themselves cared two shakes of a fan dancer’s feather.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he would ever be allowed to forget the episode. ‘Someone had it in for me.’

  ‘As for that Chavignol…’ The waiter placed the tray on the Jacques’ desk. ‘Him and his rug. My wife always says never trust a man who wears a toupee. She reckons he must have something to hide.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to suggest it could be a bald patch, but he let it go.

  ‘Did you know Chavignol had a toupee?’ asked Jacques, when the waiter had gone.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. He had been as close to him as anyone and he certainly hadn’t spotted it. But then, his mind had been on other things.

  ‘Trust a woman to notice.’ Jacques opened a desk drawer and took out two Paris goblets, along with a couple of napkins and some plates.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the tray as he tucked one of the napkins under his chin: two lengths of baguette split down the middle, with ham, lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise folded in. Two barquettes aux framboises. A pichet of Côtes de Rhône. He gave a sigh of contentment. Parfait was the only word for it.

  He reached for the nearest baguette. It was fresh from the second baking of the day; crisp and slightly warm to the touch. Breaking a piece off the end he handed it to Pommes Frites. It made up for the one he had missed.

  Jacques set about pouring the wine. ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but given that photographs are involved, it does sound a bit like history repeating itself.’

  ‘There are certain similarities,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  When the photograph, supposedly taken by him through a hole drilled in the ceiling of the changing room at the Folies first surfaced he’d thought it was some kind of joke, but as other bits of planted evidence began to appear he knew better.

  Normally it would have passed unremarked, but it so happened it not only coincided with the “silly season” in the newspaper world, but also at a time when the press were gunning for the police. They’d had a field day. Resignations were called for. Fed up with it all he had taken early retirement.

  Then one day he had bumped into Monsieur Leclercq who had offered him a job on the spot, since when he had never looked back. Another example of coincidence at work, or had that, too, been meant?

  ‘The question is how to make sure these particular photographs are destroyed before they fall into the wrong hands,’ he said. ‘That really would be history repeating itself.’

&nbs
p; ‘If you’re thinking of a breaking and entering job,’ said Jacques, ‘don’t look at me. I’d have my work cut out selling that idea upstairs.

  ‘If we didn’t get it right first time the examining magistrate would be down on us like a ton of bricks. That’s not to say a little bit of private enterprise would be amiss. It would certainly be quicker in the long run – and safer.’

  ‘In other words, I’m on my own.’

  ‘Not necessarily; at least, not entirely. I could guarantee a certain amount of co-operation.’

  ‘The place is riddled with security,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Video cameras inside and out … gates at all the windows … state of the art door fittings… you name it. It’s worse than Fort Knox.’

  ‘It isn’t for me to suggest names,’ said Jacques. ‘You know them as well as I do. But it sounds like a job for Malfiltre. Just up his street in fact. They don’t come more enterprising and privé could be his middle name.’

  ‘He’s still in his old job?’ Lowering his voice, Monsieur Pamplemousse named one of the grander security firms in Paris.

  ‘The last time I heard he was their chief advisor. I think he probably pays them for the privilege. He might even have had a hand in designing the Chavignols’ system. You never know your luck.’

  ‘What would be in it for him?’

  ‘He owes us one,’ said Jacques. ‘In fact, you might say he’s permanently in our debt. Freedom is a very precious commodity.’

  ‘Same guarantees?

  ‘Turning a blind eye can be habit-forming. Besides, he’s much more use to us where he is instead of being behind bars. I can give you his number if you like.’

  Jacques reached for a pen and pad.

  ‘How about the shells I sent you?’

  ‘They’re with forensic now.’

  ‘No prints other than Chavignol’s?’

  Jacques gave a groan. ‘You must be joking. Have you ever tried getting prints off an oyster shell? France alone farms around 2,000 million a year and I doubt if you would get one usable print off the lot.

  ‘Anyway, it could have been done some time before. The spéciales de claire will stay fresh for anything up to ten days. And even if it had been opened, an oyster can close up again if it’s left. That apart, the poison could have been injected with the aid of a syringe.’