by Michael Bond
‘But what would be the point?’
‘I think they will find they are Pascal’s. They can work wonders in the laboratories these days. Identification will only be a matter of time.’
‘I can hardly believe what you are saying,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I assume you must have good reason.’
‘Several things set my mind working,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘First of all, when I visited Madame Chavignol she told me a direct lie. It probably slipped out and was too late to correct – I did a similar thing when I denied having a card shortly after having shown one to the security camera – but she said she had been watching the programme at home, whereas I know for a fact she was in Chavignol’s flat at the studios.
‘I think she was there with the express purpose of making sure they weren’t disturbed when he was brought up. My belief is that Pascal was already beyond help having died of cyanide poisoning while watching the show with her.
‘I think it was more than fortuitous that the normal Staff Nurse was on holiday at the time. I think it was planned that way.
‘It always bothered me that Pommes Frites had become so fixed on the smell of almond essence as opposed to the real thing. The simple truth is that he was right all the time. That was what had been injected into the shell of the oyster used on the show.
‘For a magician of Chavignol’s calibre the whole thing, the feigning of his death, the carrying out of a quick change into Pascal’s clothes before the arrival of the Sapeurs-Pompiers, would have been child’s play.
‘A chance remark by a certain gentleman in a Montmartre sex shop also set my mind working. He mentioned having had a big order from Marseille of all places.
‘Then there was the car – the Facel Vega Excellence. It was Chavignol’s pride and joy. He would be hard put to find another like it. I suspect that is why early on he planted the fact that Pascal would be getting it when he died.’
‘In that case, wouldn’t that have been even more reason for them to have gone away together taking everything with them?’
‘I think for the time being at least they needed to keep up the pretence that Claudette’s relationship with Pascal was still entirely innocent. That was why he was so happy to flaunt himself driving around in it, posing as Chavignol’s one time assistant.
‘That also aroused my suspicions. By all accounts the Excellence is not an easy car to drive and the night I saw it whoever was at the wheel handled it with great aplomb, which certainly didn’t fit in with what I’d been told about Pascal’s driving.’
Feeling inside his jacket again, Monsieur Pamplemousse took out some sheets of A4 paper and handed them to the Director.
‘More souvenirs, Aristide?’
‘Your new camera came in very useful, Monsieur. These are only rough prints on plain paper, but the first picture shows a close-up of some hands on the steering wheel. They are not Pascal’s; they are much too delicate. Pascal has the hands of a manual worker. If you look at the second photograph you will see what I mean. It is a printout taken from a television picture of a photo frame in Madame Chavignol’s bedroom. At first I thought she was keeping it by her bed because of the association they had formed, but I think the explanation is more prosaic. Chavignol was a perfectionist and he needed it for getting into character; making sure he had a false moustache in exactly the right position. He left nothing to chance.
‘The third one was taken at the airport. Once again, you will see it is Chavignol’s hands pushing the trolley, not Pascal’s.
‘Blown-up on the correct paper, I think they will provide crucial evidence.’
‘But why? What prompted all this in the first place?’
‘I suspect Chavignol knew things were closing in. The Brigade Mondaine had their sights fixed on him and they weren’t going to give up in a hurry. His time was running out and he couldn’t face the thought of being sent to prison, possibly to spend the rest of his life behind bars.’
‘Will the two of them ever be found?’ asked the Director.
‘I think it is only a matter of time,’ said Monsieur. ‘In some respects the forces of retribution are already at work. They still have each other and that may turn out to be punishment enough. It is another strange twist of fate that to all intents and purposes Chavignol has effectively killed himself off. His wife will inherit all his money, and he doesn’t even have the benefit of the photographs to fall back on.’
He broke off as the familiar sound of something being whipped drew near and Maria appeared from the direction of the kitchen clutching a large unlined copper bowl and a whisk.
As soon as she reached the table she began spooning the creamy yellow contents of the bowl into some open-topped glasses.
‘Zabaglione,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘made in the traditional manner with egg yolks, sugar and Marsala beaten together over a low heat. As with the risotto, it needs to be eaten at once. Is that not so, Maria?’
‘Si, si, Signor Leclercq.’ Maria made a hasty exit only to reappear moments later with a plate of puffed-up fritters, golden brown and fresh from the pan.
The Director gave a sigh of pleasure mixed with sadness. ‘It is one of the blessings of France, Aristide, that we are bordered by so many other countries, each with its own distinctive cuisine. Italy, Spain, Germany, Belgium, and Switzerland. In one way and another all of them, even Switzerland with its fondue, have influenced our cuisine, but undoubtedly Maria’s homeland has contributed most of all.
‘In more ways than one, in the short time she has been with us she has given us much food for thought. You could say she has broadened our horizons. It is a shame our Founder never got as far as Italy on his bicyclette.’
‘She has a wonderfully deft touch with a whisk,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, scraping his glass clean.
‘Do not remind me,’ said the Director gloomily. ‘Again, she insists on using her own traditional unlined copper bowl. Finding a replacement for her will not be easy.’
He rose from the table. ‘I was going to suggest rounding things off with a digestif, but in the circumstances I think a celebratory glass of champagne is called for.’
Monsieur Leclercq was gone rather a long time and when he returned he was carrying a glistening bottle in one hand and Maria’s copper bowl in the other.
‘I thought Pommes Frites might like to join us,’ he announced.
‘I don’t suppose he’s ever eaten zabaglione before,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There is a first time for everything.’
He recognised the Gosset label on the champagne. It was his favourite. For all his quirky ways the Director was a kind and thoughtful host. He threw a balloon in the air.
‘I was thinking while you were out of the room, Monsieur. You have not been over-fortunate with your lady cooks in recent years. There was the English girl, Elsie, the one who specialised in a dish called Spotted Dick. As I recall, she left in somewhat of a hurry. Now Marie. Perhaps it is time to try a change of sex.
‘I may be able to put you in touch with someone who will almost certainly be looking for a job. I have sampled his cooking and I am certain it would meet with your approval, although I doubt if his last employers will be able to provide references.’
It was a small return for such a delicious meal; really more of a quid pro quo. He didn’t mention Monsieur Leclercq had also experienced Yang’s cooking, for fear it might prejudice him.
He just hoped the Director’s newfound horizons were sufficiently catholic to extend beyond the Western world. If they didn’t already, he had a feeling they soon would.
It was his good deed for the day.
The drive back to Paris wasn’t the best he’d ever had. There were too many things on his mind. Good things and bad things. One way and another he had hardly stopped all the week. Unlike his 2CV, which didn’t exactly bristle with optional extras, his brain was still in overdrive. He wondered if he had been over-optimistic in his report to the Director. He didn’t think so. He wondered, too,
about Mademoiselle Katz and all the others he had met at the studios; what the future held for them. He also wondered if he would ever be able to eat again. But then, that was often the case after a good meal. In his profession it was something of an occupational hazard.
Pommes Frites also appeared to have a lot on his mind. He was clearly worried about something, and when he was in that mood it was much the same as having a nervous passenger on the back of a motorcycle. He was apt to lean the wrong way and steering suffered accordingly. Several times Monsieur Pamplemousse had difficulty getting round corners at anything approaching his normal speed.
The meal had been beyond reproach; both the food and the wine were memorable. But as for the venue providing an opportunity for peaceful discussion… Fumes apart, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help thinking a pavement café in the Rue de Rivoli would have been a better choice.
One way and another he was looking forward to putting his feet up.
What he didn’t expect to find when he got home was Doucette standing in the middle of the hall clutching a spear.
The assegai had been a present many years before from a grateful African witch doctor who had been arrested for playing a tom-tom in a block of flats at two o’clock one morning. Through Monsieur Pamplemousse’s good offices the charge of disturbing the peace had been dropped, and the subsequent gift had been standing in their hall for so long he had almost forgotten it was there.
‘You won’t believe me when I tell you what’s been happening,’ said Doucette, an unholy gleam in her eye.
‘Try me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse wearily.
‘They’ve been back!’ said Doucette.
‘They?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse, suddenly all ears. ‘What do you mean they?’
‘Those two men who came earlier in the week. Well, not the same two. But they both had clipboards. They spun me some yarn to do with there having been complaints about your jardinières. Apparently there is a story going around that one of them fell off the balcony. But that simply isn’t possible.’
‘You haven’t been out there since the first two men came?’
‘Should I have?’
‘Never mind. What happened?’
‘These two are much worse than the others. The first two were perfect gentlemen, but these…’ Doucette gave a shudder. ‘They practically forced their way in when I tried to shut the door on them. I won’t tell you what they said when I drove them into the kitchen.’
‘You did what? Are they still there?’
‘They have nowhere else to go,’ said Doucette simply. ‘They are locked in.’
‘Give me the key, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse grimly.
‘I can’t.’
‘What do you mean – you can’t?’
‘They have it. They locked themselves in. I think they were a little afraid of what I might do.’
‘Have you called the police?’
‘I was waiting for you, Aristide,’ said Doucette. ‘I know how you feel about these things. Aren’t you proud of me?’
‘How long have they been in there?’
‘About three hours. In the beginning they were knocking so loud I thought the neighbours might complain. But they’ve given up now.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse struggled to find the right words. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said at last.
Signalling Pommes Frites to stand by, he crossed to the far end of the living room and braced himself to charge.
‘Enfants de garce!’ he cried, as his shoulder landed fair and square in the middle of the door. ‘That is for my marjolaine!’
‘Salauds!’ he shouted at the second attempt. ‘That is for my fenouil!’
‘Sélérats!’ he bawled as tried for a third time. ‘That is for my oseille!’
He was beginning to wish he hadn’t started. Apart from the pain in his shoulder he was running out of herbs.
Taking a deep breath, he lowered his head in preparation for the final assault. ‘And this…’ he cried, as he gathered speed. ‘This is for my estragon!’
He was over halfway across the room there when the door suddenly opened. Too late to stop, he shot straight through into the kitchen, dimly aware as he did so of two figures going past him in the opposite direction.
‘Aristide? Are you alright?’ Doucette’s cry of alarm was punctuated by the sound of barking and the slamming of a door.
Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t answer. He was sitting on the floor studying a piece of paper. It bore an official stamp.
‘Why did you let them go, Aristide?’ Doucette came into the kitchen and helped him to his feet.
‘Because…’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse. He wondered if he should tell her the truth.
By now the men must be halfway to the Mairie, with Pommes Frites hot on their heels. They would be back. Nothing was more certain. Probably with reinforcements. It would be as well to make sure that when they did return there was nothing on the balcony they could complain about.
‘Perhaps, Couscous,’ he said, ‘seeing tomorrow is the last day of my holiday, we could go for a drive in the country. If we leave early we can take advantage of the fine weather. It may be the last chance we shall have before winter.’
It was hardly fate that caused him to follow the same route out of Paris as he had taken the previous Sunday; more a matter of satisfying his enquiring mind.
The census people were still there. Not only that but they recognised him immediately.
‘Don’t tell me you are going to see your sister-in-law again,’ said the man with the clipboard.
‘You must be a glutton for punishment, Monsieur,’ chuckled the gendarme.
‘There are three of us today,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse pointedly. ‘Allow me to introduce my wife. You understand what I am saying?’
The gendarme was quickest off the mark. ‘Of course, Monsieur. Bonne promenade.’ Coming to attention, he saluted. Clearly he must keep himself abreast of the news. In the old days Monsieur Pamplemousse would have marked him down for promotion.
‘Two adults, one chien.’ The man from the census ticked off his boxes. Then he, too, did his best to salute.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Doucette, as they drove on their way. ‘We are not going to visit Agathe are we? She won’t be expecting us and you know how she suffers from palpitations when she gets taken by surprise.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Doucette. ‘I really couldn’t stand another tripes à la mode de Caen quite so soon.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at her. ‘Do you mean to say you don’t like it either?’
‘It is revolting,’ said Doucette. ‘She only does it to please you. In the beginning she was so delighted we had met. Besides, at the time you said how nice it was.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse narrowly missed running into the back of an articulated lorry. ‘Do you mean to say that all these years we’ve been living a lie and I have been paying for it with indigestion.’
‘It’s too late to go back on it now,’ said Doucette firmly. ‘Agathe would be devastated.’
‘It was the first time we had met,’ protested Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I could hardly say it was the worst I had ever tasted. I might have lost you.’
Doucette gave his knee a squeeze. ‘You know you wouldn’t have, Aristide.’ She settled back in her seat. ‘Anyway, let us not spoil today. It’s quite like old times – just the two of us – driving out into the country for no reason at all other than the fact that we like being together.’
‘Three.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse corrected her. ‘Pommes Frites isn’t used to being squashed up in the back. He may want to get out and stretch his legs amongst other things later.’
He wondered if it was right moment to mention that what he really had in mind was paying a visit to a garden centre in order to replenish his stock of herbs and buy a new jardinière. He decided to wait until he saw the approach signs.
/> ‘These things are really all a matter of communication, Couscous,’ he said. ‘If you want my opinion, lack of communication is responsible for half the ills in this world.’
Glancing up at the rear view mirror he caught Pommes Frites’ eye. He was wearing his quizzical expression; half disbelief, half barely concealed admiration. Or to put it another way, he looked like a dog who was finding it extremely difficult to believe his own ears where his master was concerned.
Available from
ALLISON & BUSBY
Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint
About the Author
MICHAEL BOND was born in Newbury, Berkshire in 1926 and started writing whilst serving in the army during the Second World War. In 1958 the first book featuring his most famous creation, Paddington Bear, was published and many stories of his adventures followed.
In 1983 he turned his hand to adult fiction and the detective cum gastronome par excellence Monsieur Pamplemousse was born, accompanied as always by his faithful bloodhound Pommes Frites.
Michael Bond was awarded an OBE in 1997 and in 2007 was made an Honorary Doctor of Letters by Reading University. He is married, with two grown-up children, and lives in London.
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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Hardcover published in Great Britain in 2003.
Paperback edition published in 2006.
This ebook edition first published 2011.
Copyright © 2003 by MICHAEL BOND
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.