by Michael Bond
‘Mission accomplished?’ asked Jacques.
‘Pommes Frites will let you know in a little while.’
Hearing his name Pommes Frites made as though to get up, but at a signal from his master he remained where he was.
‘Will it be a walk-on gate, or one where they get bussed out to the plane?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse watched Claudette hand her ticket in at the desk.
‘It’s all taken care of,’ said Jacques. ‘It’s buses. The further away from the terminal building they are the better.’
‘Pity about the case. Malfiltre reckoned it’s one of Louis Vuitton’s best and he should know.’
‘You always did have a sentimental streak,’ said Jacques.
‘I hate waste.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse waited until Claudette had completed her registration. Clearly Pascal wasn’t travelling with her. On the other hand, their perfunctory goodbyes after a brief chat left him with the feeling that it was only a matter of “watch this space” before they next met up.
He glanced at his watch. ‘We ought to be on our way too. It would be a shame to miss the flight.’
Chapter Ten
‘An elegant solution, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I must congratulate you.’
‘It had a lot to recommend it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse modestly, ‘but I couldn’t have done it alone. I had help from an old colleague, along with someone who was once in the milieu, and Pommes Frites of course. In effect it was an arm’s length transaction. Once everything was in position all the dirty work was done for us.’
‘I cannot wait to touch base with you,’ continued the Director. ‘But never forget, the first aim of Le Guide is to report on food. Michelin, originally given away free when it first came out in 1900, was ostensibly published for the benefit of motorists, although in fact its underlying aim at a time when there were only 3000 registered cars in the whole of France, was to get people to become more motor minded so that in turn they, Michelin, would sell more tyres.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared across the dining room table at his boss.
He was used to the sudden flights of fancy; the unforeseen excursions into uncharted waters. Indeed, there were times when it was hard to keep pace with them. But seeing he had travelled all the way to Monsieur Leclercq’s country home some thirty kilometres outside Paris for the express purpose of bringing him up to date on the current crisis over the photographs, it seemed a bit of a non-sequitur.
His host had also begun pulling strange faces, screwing up his eyes as though in pain, and for a brief moment Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he had suffered a minor stroke brought on by the excitement of the occasion. With that possibility in mind he decided to humour him.
‘I have always understood that was especially true following the introduction of the pneumatic tyre,’ he said. ‘In their early editions Michelin placed more emphasis on garages than they did on restaurants.’
Monsieur Leclercq visibly relaxed. ‘That is why our founder, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, stuck to his bicyclette. His theory was that people who used such a basic method of propulsion arrived at their destination far hungrier than those who travelled by train or car, and therefore appreciated a good meal all the more. For many years he refused to give up hard tyres as a matter of principle. In those days, of course, bicycle tires were glued to the rim anyway, but he viewed the arrival of pneumatic tyres with the utmost suspicion, believing it was a sign that France was going soft physically as well as spiritually.
‘Times change; even the two hour break for dejeuner is no longer sacrosanct.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. He hoped the Director’s last remark didn’t mean their own lunch was going to be cut short. He had already told Doucette he wouldn’t be wanting any dinner.
He relaxed as an elderly lady wearing a white overall and a chef’s toque materialised alongside him bearing a plate of risotto. He hadn’t even realised she was in the room. It was no wonder the Director had changed the subject so abruptly.
His spirits rose still further when she produced an ancient grater and began adding shavings of white truffle across the top of the rice. The smell of truffles mingling with that of the cheese was heaven sent.
‘Parmigiano-reggiano,’ said the Director of the latter, ‘cut from the wheel. Maria refuses to buy so-called Parmesan that has already been grated. It is the same with the rice. Her choice is vialone nano. Nothing else will do.
‘Please go ahead. It is one of her specialities – what our American friends would call her “signature dish”. She will be most upset if you allow it to spoil. Is that not so, Maria?’
‘Si, si, signor Leclercq.’
‘She is absolutely right, of course.’ The Director reached for a decanter of red wine and began filling the glasses while his own needs were attended to. ‘In preparing a risotto there is a brief moment when everything reaches perfection; the moment critique. It is somewhat akin to scrambling an egg or making an omelette; another second and you have left it too late.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was only too pleased to obey his host’s command. The dish was heavenly. The rice must have swelled up to three times its original volume, yet it remained firm and creamy, and the first truffles of the season were beyond reproach. His only regret was that Doucette couldn’t share it too.
‘Please forgive my digression,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, when they were alone once more. ‘Maria is a lovely lady; a trifle taciturn perhaps, but une perle, a proverbial “treasure”. Like all “treasures” she has her funny little ways and nothing you say or do will change that. Fortunately, her particular talents lie in the realms of gastronomy – so we don’t have to put all the pictures straight after she has been round with the feather duster. However she is inclined to appear when you least expect it. For one of such generous dimensions she makes remarkably little noise when she is going about her work. She insists on wearing carpet slippers so that she won’t disturb us, but I suspect it is so that she can hear what is going on more clearly.’
‘It is far better to be safe than sorry,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘“You cannot sew buttons on your neighbour’s mouth”, as the old Russian proverb would have it,’ said the Director.
‘Now, to return to the subject in hand…’
Hearing what he thought was the sound of approaching carpet slippers, Monsieur Pamplemousse beat Monsieur Leclercq to it.
‘Just recently,’ he said, ‘I was reading about the late Henry Ford. As I am sure you are aware, his great advertising ploy when the Model T first came on the market was that customers could have any colour they liked provided it was black.’
It was Monsieur Leclercq’s turn to look puzzled. ‘Yes, yes, Pamplemousse,’ he said. ‘We all know the reason for that. He wanted to turn out as many cars as he could in the shortest possible time.’
‘Ah, but why choose black, Monsieur? Why not green or blue, or even red?’
‘I really don’t know,’ said the Director, in a voice that suggested he didn’t really care either.
‘Because all the other colours took longer to dry,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
He felt a wet nose against his free hand. It was Pommes Frites after all. Certain among them were hoping for seconds.
‘I will have a word with Maria,’ said the Director, noticing traces of rice on Pommes Frites’ chin. ‘You say he played a role in the whole affair?’
‘Without him,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply, ‘I doubt if we would be sitting here today.
‘It was one thing knowing the photographs were in Madame Chavignol’s luggage. Positively identifying the particular suitcase from amongst all the others once it had entered the system would have been another matter entirely. For all we knew there could have been many identical cases being processed. It had to be tagged in some way before she checked in.
‘In the event I was able to call on the services of someone who had actually handled the case and knew which one to look
for. I won’t bore you with the details, but on the way to the airport I called in at Bon Marché, and for a modest outlay of 1.68 Euros in their food department I purchased a particular brand of almond essence that Pommes Frites identified with the scent inside the oyster shell. He had it fixed in his mind as being a vital clue. He was absolutely right, of course, although the reason wasn’t clear to the rest of us at the time.
‘By means of subterfuge a liberal dose was planted on the outside of the case before it was checked in, so that Pommes Frites could pick it out with his eyes shut if necessary.’
Monsieur Leclercq produced a tiny dictating machine from an inner pocket. ‘I must make a note of that, otherwise we may have trouble with Madame Grante in accounts when you submit your next P.39. Please continue.’
‘Through the offices of my ex-colleague in the Sûreté, the three of us were able to station ourselves near the plane before the baggage arrived…’
‘I have an early edition of Michelin,’ broke in the Director, ‘which has a symbol for hotels that were plagued with bed bugs.’
Taking the hint this time, Monsieur Pamplemousse entered into the spirit of things. ‘Squashed or otherwise?’ he asked. ‘I trust they didn’t award the hotels rosettes if it was the latter.’
‘No, Pamplemousse, they did not!’ said the Director crossly. ‘It was meant as a warning.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse heard another shuffling sound behind him. This time it was for real and it was accompanied by yet another delicious smell. Clearly the moment for serious discussion had passed.
Monsieur Leclercq leaned across the table. ‘Another window lost,’ he hissed.
A bit rich, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, considering the number of times the Director had monopolised the conversation. On the other hand… the smell drew closer.
‘I thought we would meet here so that we would enjoy peace and quiet,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, above the sound of comings and goings from the kitchen. ‘My wife is in Paris today visiting a fashion show in the Avenue Montaigne. Chanel, I believe. Let us hope she doesn’t bump into Madame Pamplemousse. They may put their heads together and exchange notes.’
‘I think that is highly unlikely,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He didn’t suggest it was more likely to happen in Galeries Lafayette. The irony would be lost.
‘Suprême de pintade et raviolis aux poireaux,’ announced the Director as plates arrived on the table. ‘Yet another of Maria’s specialities. She uses only the white of leeks, lightly braised to form a base for marinated breasts of guinea-fowl, grilled, as you will see, until they are golden brown, then thinly sliced. The sheets of ravioli covering the whole are homemade. Crème fraîche, chicken stock and butter is used to make the sauce. Both the crème fraîche and the butter are from Echiré.’
He rose to replenish the glasses. ‘I trust you find this wine to your satisfaction…’
‘Parfait, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse had already identified it as being from the Rhône Valley, but it was not one he’d had the good fortune to come across before.
‘It is a Côte Rotie d’Ampuis from Guigal,’ said the Director. ‘A blend of his six top cuvées. Need I say more? It could hardly enjoy a better pedigree.’
Not for the first time it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the Director had missed his vocation. He would have made an impeccable maitre d’; especially if Maria had been doing the cooking.
‘You are lucky with your “treasure”, Monsieur,’ he said, as she disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Alas, it is only a temporary arrangement,’ said the Director. ‘Her husband passed away recently and she has no one to cook for. She is simply filling in.’
‘He must have died a happy man,’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse, dabbing at his lips with a napkin having sampled the guinea fowl. The Director was right about the sauce. The characteristic nutty flavour of the Echiré crème fraîche came through. There was no denying the importance of prime ingredients.
‘Those in the village do say he passed away with a smile on his lips and a lump of spaghetti Bolognaise stuck to his chin,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Unfortunately she has decided to return to Italy to be with her children. We shall certainly miss her. So what happened next?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse speared another portion of his guinea fowl before continuing. It was a pity to mar the pleasure with too much talk.
‘Once the luggage arrived on the tarmac,’ he continued after a moment or two, ‘Pommes Frites set to work and immediately homed in on the target. From that moment on events followed an established pattern. Any unidentifiable item of baggage is an object of suspicion and treated accordingly.’
‘How about labels?’ broke in the Director. ‘Surely Vuitton supplied Madame Chavignol with a matching set of labels for her name and address.’
‘Labels?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse innocently. Reaching into a jacket pocket, he produced a leather-bound tag and handed it across the table.
‘As I was saying, a tried and tested procedure is put into place. The object is first removed to a safe location, and the area cordoned off. Explosive material is placed beneath it, and the whole is then covered with sound deadening material.
‘It is much like making a pommes tourte, except instead of the apple pie being consumed, the explosive device is detonated and the case and its contents blown to smithereens.
‘The area is then cleared and tidied up, the tape removed, and life goes on. It has become such a common occurrence it doesn’t even get a mention in the press. I doubt if even many people on the plane knew it had happened.’
Monsieur Leclercq reached for a small hand-bell. ‘I shall be interested to hear what gave you the idea as to the whereabouts of the photographs in the first place, Aristide. But first we have a little green salad to clear the palate, along with some Pont l’Evêque cheese to go with the rest of the wine.’
Sensing a longer period between their arrival and the serving of the dessert, Monsieur Pamplemousse seized the opportunity to fill in the details, including Claudette’s arrival at the airport.
‘And you think this Pascal will be joining Madame Chavignol in Marseille?’ asked the Director.
‘I think she will be joined there,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse non-committally. ‘He will be driving down to Marseille in his Facel Vega.’
‘In which case, why not take the luggage?’
‘The simple answer to that is that neither probably trusted the other.’
‘It will not be a happy moment when they eventually meet up,’ mused the Director.
‘You can say that again,’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, picturing Claudette waiting by the carousel for her case to emerge. While Monsieur Leclercq was digesting the notion, he helped himself to another wedge of Pont-l’Evêque. It was creamy yellow, glistening with fat and stronger than usual.
‘It comes from a small farm in Normandy.’ The Director couldn’t resist breaking off from his reverie. ‘One of the very few, perhaps 2% of the total, who still produce it by hand.’
‘Did you know that the man credited with the invention of electronic television in the United States got the idea when he was only fourteen years old?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Until that moment people in many other parts of the world had been trying to perfect a means of transmitting pictures with the aid of revolving discs.
‘His name was Philo T. Farnsworth and one day he was ploughing a field on his father’s farm in Idaho when he happened to glance round to view his handiwork. Seeing the lines of dead straight furrows stretching out across the landscape caused him to wonder about the possibility of breaking up a picture up in the same way, line by line, and transmitting it electronically.’
‘I didn’t know that, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director, pouring the last of the wine. ‘But it seems to me to be a particularly useless piece of information in the present context. Why are you telling me?’
‘Simply to answer your earlier question, Monsieur, an
d to make the point that ideas are often things of the moment, triggered off quite by chance. The muse strikes in surprising ways. Had Doucette not shown me some old snaps taken in Nice it would never have occurred to me where the photographs might be kept.’
‘And you really think they have all been blown to Kingdom Come?’
‘That is my hope and belief, Monsieur, and I see no reason to think otherwise.’
Monsieur Leclereq got up and crossed to the mullioned window. ‘It is amazing how a single sunbeam can light up the day,’ he said, gazing out at the tranquil scene beyond the boundaries of his estate; orchards shedding their leaves and further still, now that the early morning mist had cleared, there were fields where sheep could be seen grazing. ‘There have been moments of late, Aristide, when I feared the worst. I really find it hard to find words to express how much I, and many others, are in your debt.’
‘Then I suggest you do not try,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gently. ‘Never forget I also had a vested interest in making sure the photographs were destroyed.’
‘And what you are also saying is that now her husband’s ashes are safely below ground Madame Chavignol has gone off into the blue with his assistant, Pascal, to begin a new life.’
‘I think that is what both of them would like everyone to believe, Monsieur.’
‘So that is that.’ The Director could hardly contain his relief as he returned to the table and began replenishing the glasses.
‘Not quite, Monsieur. There was another point to my analogy with television. It seemed to me an odd twist of fate that Chavignol chose to use that medium to put his scheme into practice.’
‘You have lost me, Aristide,’ said the Director. ‘Surely, much as one disliked the man one can hardly accuse him of committing suicide on air.’
‘No,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But he may end up facing a charge of murder, or at the very least being an accessory to one. It is my belief that he is still alive. Alive and well and, along with his wife, thinking they have got away with it.
‘Furthermore, when the powers that be catch up with events I predict there will be a move to have the ashes recovered.’