Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines

by Michael Bond

  ‘You were a trendsetter, Monsieur. For a time we had a big run on kennels. With some it was a case of the smaller the better. Others, like you, went for broke, but then people grew tired of them. You perhaps wish to replace it? I have a few of the deluxe models left. They come complete with a battery-operated video camera and a packet of assorted condoms…’

  Anxious to change the drift of the conversation, Monsieur Pamplemousse opened the shop door and called for Pommes Frites. There was barely room for the two of them.

  Oscar took the point. ‘My apologies, Monsieur.’

  ‘How is trade?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Oscar gave a non-committal shrug.

  ‘The death of Monsieur Chavignol hasn’t affected you?’ Again, it was a shot in the dark.

  ‘Chavignol? The television chef?’ Oscar eyed him cautiously. ‘What made you ask that?’

  ‘I know his tastes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I know the kind of money he was prepared to spend. He would only go for the best.’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ said Oscar. ‘As for business, it is as it has always been – swings and roundabouts. You lose some … you win some. Most of the time it is a matter of keeping one step ahead of the game. There is always a demand for something new. Since digital cameras came on the market nobody wants “private” film processing any more. They can watch everything on their own television screens as it happens. As for porno pics… it isn’t so much what people are doing to each other these days, it’s who’s doing what to whom.

  ‘Which reminds me. You were going to let me have some taken of you with those girls at the Folies – the ones that led to your being fired. How many girls was it? ‘Twenty-five?’

  ‘They were not of me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gruffly. ‘They were supposedly taken by me. And the number is immaterial. It was a set-up. As for my being fired because of it – I took early retirement.

  ‘Why am I here? It is because I am investigating Chavignol’s murder. You would do well to co-operate. I would like to know how long you have had dealings with him? What kind of products you have been supplying him with? In short, anything and everything you can tell me about him. Par exemple, has he ever been into selling you pictures?’

  ‘Not since the very beginning. In the early days, when he was still on tour, he used to send me photos from time to time. I think some of his assistants got more than they bargained for when they took the job. Folding themselves up when they were supposedly being sawn in two was the least of their problems.’

  He pointed to a poster on the wall showing a younger Claude Chavignol. Dressed in top hat and tails, he looked the archetypal magician.

  ‘In the beginning he used to come in here occasionally. For minor items, you understand? Then, when he began to hit the high spots he switched to mail-order. As time went by he started looking for more exotic items … that was when he opened an account. He’s had one ever since.’

  ‘So there would be records…’

  ‘Records?’ Oscar looked pained.

  ‘What sort of things did he buy?’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Come with me and I will show you…’

  Leaving Pommes Frites to guard the reception area, Monsieur Pamplemousse followed Oscar into the back of his shop. It was like entering a waxworks museum.

  ‘Inflatable nuns are the best-selling line, particularly those that come with, shall we say, rather more exotic optional extras than you might expect from someone who has recently taken the vow of chastity. Monsieur Chavignol favoured novices. I think perhaps he enjoyed picturing deflowering them before they had taken their finals. But he was not averse to the occasional Mother Superior.

  ‘English Headmistresses come a close second. Articulated nurses are coming up fast.’

  ‘Articulated nurses?’ Oscar made it sound like a horse race.

  ‘You can have them bending over while they are making the beds.’ He led the way through some bead curtains. ‘Monsieur Chavignol used to call this my Edith Cavell room. I don’t know why.’

  It could have been a field hospital at the time of the Crimean War.

  ‘They have to stand up to a lot of hard wear.’ Oscar caught Monsieur Pamplemousse eyeing the selection of whips and scourges hanging from the walls.

  ‘What used to be known as the English disease is becoming more and more popular. Word gets around. Only this morning I had a big order in from Marseille of all places. That is like sending foie gras to Gascony.’

  ‘Nurse Cavell must be turning in her grave,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily. To have inspired Edith Piaf in the choice of a first name was one thing, but he doubted if she would appreciate having it coupled to Oscar’s flights of fancy.

  ‘She is someone you know?’ asked Oscar, with an eye to business. ‘You have her address?’

  ‘Edith Cavell,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘was an English nurse; a heroine of the First World War.’ His wave embraced the whole of the display. ‘Such things are hardly what she can have had in mind when she was appointed first matron of the Berkendael Institute in Brussels. While she was there she helped many wounded British, French and Belgian soldiers escape to the Netherlands. She ended up on October the 7th 1915 being shot by the Germans.’

  ‘Such erudition,’ said Oscar. ‘There is no doubt, Monsieur P. you were a great loss to the Force when you took early retirement. It serves them right.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse decided it was time to go. There was nothing more to be gained.

  On their way back to the Boulevard de Clichy, Pommes Frites received an offer he clearly had no difficulty in refusing, this time from a woman standing outside a massage parlour. It was one more than his master had scored. Things were coming to a pretty pass.

  Having reached the Place Pigalle, Monsieur Pamplemousse mentally tossed a coin as whether or not to take the Montmartrobus home. There was one waiting at the terminus on the far side of the square.

  Before he had a chance to reach a decision it moved off, so he decided instead to give Pommes Frites a treat, although in truth he didn’t fancy doing it the hard way himself; there would be 250 or more steps to climb if they went on foot.

  Turning into the Rue de Steinkerque he found himself trapped behind a swarm of Japanese tourists also making their way up the hill, taking pictures as they went. Their eyes were firmly fixed on a white flag attached to the end of a pole up ahead and there was no getting past.

  Finally, he managed to overtake the party when they paused in the Place Saint Pierre. Cameras whirred and clicked as they took pictures of the ancient carousel.

  Bypassing a quartet outside the entrance to the funicular, doing their best for Vivaldi as they struggled to rise above the sound of the fairground organ, he saw there was an empty cabin. Hastily boarding it, he staked a claim on a vacant seat at the rear. With luck he would be on his way before anyone else got on.

  Like everything else it had gone “state-of-the-art”. From being a twin track, counterbalance arrangement with one cab going up as the other one came down, it was now a funicular in name only, each car operating independently of the other. With automatic detectors controlling all the variables, such as the total weight of passengers, the journey time had been halved and the system was now able to carry up to 2000 passengers per hour, double the previous number.

  The schoolboy in him was looking forward to the experience, and his heart sank when he saw the same white flag heading his way above the crowd surrounding the musicians.

  Moments later his worst fears were realised. Cameras still clicking, the party of Japanese poured on.

  Then, horror of horrors, the worst happened. Having automatically weighed the load and decided the full quota of passengers had been reached, a peremptory warning signal sounded and the doors of the cabin closed, leaving the tour leader stranded on the platform. He was fortunate not to have lost his pole. Cries of alarm went up from all around. It was as though an umbilical cord had been severe
d.

  It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that in a way it was symbolic. Parallels could be drawn with the Centre de Télévision et Ciné de la Butte. They, too, had lost their “tour leader”; their star performer, the man who had made it all possible. He hoped the company would survive. It was a highly professional undertaking – a city within a city – and he respected professionalism. It would be a pity to see it fall by the wayside. The great problem of course would be in keeping highly paid staff productive. If they weren’t fully employed they would be on their way.

  No sooner had they set off up the hill than his mobile rang.

  ‘Two things,’ said Jacques. ‘The date for the funeral has been fixed…’

  ‘Does that mean the autopsy has been completed?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to make himself heard above the hubbub.

  ‘Death has been certified as being due to cyanide poisoning. The funeral is tomorrow at 14.30. Cimetière Montmartre.’

  ‘So soon? That is not possible.’

  ‘All things are possible,’ said Jacques. He broke off. ‘Where are you? Are you alright?’

  ‘I am far from alright,’ gasped Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  The 40 second journey completed, he was caught on a tidal wave of anxious bodies as the doors opened and the passengers began making good their escape before anything more went wrong.

  ‘You had me worried for a moment,’ said Jacques when they made contact again. ‘It sounded like sale time at Galeries Lafayette.’

  ‘It was worse,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse with feeling. ‘Much worse.’ So much for Pommes Frites’ treat, and his own come to that.

  ‘Madame Chavignol has been pushing for it,’ continued Jacques, ‘and you know what that means. Surprise, surprise, the examining magistrate has agreed. He says that as there is no case to answer the funeral can go ahead.’

  ‘Is it official yet?’

  ‘No. They are trying to keep it as low-key as possible. Actually, between you and me, what he really said was: “Since we have no idea who did it and would rather not know, the sooner he is six feet under the better.”

  ‘Anyway, it means the house will be empty between say, 13.40 and – give or take a few minutes either way – say 15.30 to be on the safe side.’

  ‘How about the staff?’

  ‘The whole affair is by invitation only. The live-in ones – the chef and the manservant will be going. Any others are being giving the day off.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I asked one of them,’ said Jacques simply.

  ‘I’ve checked with Malfiltre. He is in town. I’ve told him to expect a call from you.’

  ‘Merci beaucoup,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily. ‘So what is the second thing?’

  ‘My information is that unless some distant relative turns up at the last minute and contests the will, everything apart from a Facel Vega car goes to Madame Chavignol.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse absorbed the various bits of news as he reached the Place de Tertre, by now awash with tourists. A Montmartrobus – he wasn’t sure if it was the same one he had nearly caught – was forcing its way past, scattering the unwary right left and centre, much to their disgust. They looked as though they thought it had no right to be there at all. Jacques could have played his game for real.

  ‘Can I ring you back?’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. Any developments your end?’

  ‘I tell you one thing,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I have a feeling Pommes Frites knows something we don’t. He is behaving very strangely.’

  ‘So what’s new?’ said Jacques gloomily.

  Happy to be back at last after a rather longer morning walk than he was used to, Pommes Frites hurried on ahead of his master and paused outside the apartment block in order to mark his arrival home in time-honoured fashion and at the same time register his territorial rights for the benefit of any other dogs who happened to pass that way.

  It being a regular habit, he allowed his gaze to wander and, happening to glance skywards, noticed two men making their way along the topmost balcony. They seemed to be carrying a heavy load between them and even as he watched, they stopped at a point immediately above the entrance to the building and began lifting whatever it was onto the railings.

  For a brief moment the three legs supporting Pommes Frites’ weight remained rooted to the ground; the pose was so fixed the whole ensemble might well have been mistaken for yet another bizarre work by Jean Marais, creator of Marcel Aymé’s statue.

  It was so striking, a passing tourist recorded the moment for posterity on his Instamatic, blissfully unaware as he went on his way that he was about to miss a photo opportunity that would have more than paid for his holiday.

  Pommes Frites could have told him if he’d had the time. But he didn’t. It dawned on him that if he were to stand the remotest chance of saving his master from almost certain death speed was of the essence. That being so, he sprang into action.

  The dull thud as Monsieur Pamplemousse hit the paving had barely died away when a second crash echoed round the square, sending sparrows, pigeons and other lesser forms of wildlife fleeing in all directions.

  Any satisfaction Pommes Frites might have gained from a mission accomplished was offset by the fact that in falling his master appeared to have knocked himself out.

  He gave the bit nearest to him a tentative lick and having savoured the result, gazed down at it with interest.

  Although his licks were widely recognised as being a panacea for a variety of ills, it was a long time since he’d had occasion to apply the treatment to his nearest and dearest. Such intimacies, whilst appreciated for the thought that lay behind them, were not normally encouraged on account of the wetness factor. That being so, he was surprised to discover the taste was not that of aftershave – which he didn’t much care for, but that it bore a remarkable resemblance to a dish Madame Pamplemousse sometimes took out of her oven of an evening. You learnt something new every day.

  It being one of his favourites he tried again, and this time something detached itself from his tongue, wakening his master in the process.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse sat up. Slowly gathering his senses as everything around him swam back into focus, he was able to shed a little more light on the subject.

  Removing a half-chewed object stuck to his cheek, he immediately identified it as a marjoram leaf, that classic accompaniment to roast lamb.

  Worse still, only a few metres away, sprigs of what had once been healthy sorrel and fennel plants protruded from the shattered remains of a pottery jardinière.

  The fact that he had narrowly escaped being killed was one thing; a matter he was to dwell on more fully in the days to come. To lose a sixth of his herb garden in one fell swoop was something else again.

  Retrieving one of the broken stems, he eyed it gloomily. It was all that was left of his prize tarragon. Doubtless whoever was responsible for the outrage would be well clear of the building by now, but if he ever caught up with the person or persons unknown, he would personally make sure they would wish they had never been born.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Doucette,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘you must promise me never, ever to let anyone into our apartment again without finding out exactly who they are and why they want to come in.’

  ‘But they seemed so nice, Aristide,’ said Doucette. ‘They told me they were from the Mairie. They had seen your picture in a journal and they wanted to inspect our balcony to make sure everything was safe.’

  ‘Did they show you any form of identification?’

  ‘They both had cards.’

  ‘And of course you read them to make sure they were genuine?’

  ‘Does anybody? It always seems so rude. Besides, I didn’t have my reading glasses on.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyes to high heaven. ‘What did they look like?’

  ‘They were both short and they had dark, pin-stripe suits. One of them looked a bit like that A
merican film star – Edward G. Robinson. He was smoking a large cigar. I’m sure I would recognise them again if I saw them.’

  ‘I can tell you one place you needn’t bother looking,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gruffly. ‘That’s anywhere within twenty kilometres of the Mairie.’

  ‘They both had clipboards,’ said Doucette defensively. ‘It’s what made it seem so official.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse sighed. ‘Couscous, that is the oldest trick in the world. A clipboard is a symbol of authority. It will get you anywhere.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Doucette, ‘they didn’t do any harm. They were in and out in a matter of minutes.’

  ‘I bet they were,’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘The one with the cigar said what a nice apartment we had. He apologised for dropping ash on the carpet as he went out.’

  She looked so contrite he didn’t have the heart to pursue the subject any more. Besides, she had no idea what a narrow escape he’d had. If it wasn’t for Pommes Frites’ quick reactions… He shuddered; it didn’t bear thinking about. It would be better not to tell Doucette. She wouldn’t get any sleep if he did.

  ‘I blame the media,’ he said. ‘I can’t go anywhere at the moment without people recognising me.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Doucette, ‘it is because you have your name written in large letters for all the world to see.’

  Reaching out, she removed the studio’s plastic name-tag from his jacket lapel and handed it to him. Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at it sheepishly.

  ‘What else have you been up to, Couscous?’ he asked, resisting the temptation to add ‘apart from putting out the welcome mat for two loulous who were clearly out to get me.’ He hadn’t exactly taken heed of Mademoiselle Katz’s warning himself.

  ‘I’ve been going through some old photographs.’ Doucette pointed to an album lying half open on the dining-room table. ‘Have you had a good day?’

  ‘Have I had a good day?’ It was hard to say. It was possible that somewhere amongst all the chaff there might be a few grains of wheat. He would need to sleep on it. In any case Doucette didn’t wait for an answer.