by Michael Bond
As they left the station, having deposited their bags, Pommes Frites mentally added yet another item to his growing list of notes.
‘I can see why Jay wouldn’t want to hang around here,’ said Amber. ‘It isn’t exactly his scene.’
She eyed the picturesque medieval half-timbered buildings as they entered the rue Gaston Folloppe. ‘He would have been like a fish out of water. Can you imagine it?’
‘Edith Piaf managed to cope with it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Having been abandoned by her mother soon after she was born, she lived here with her grandmother over a brothel until she was fourteen. There is even a street named after her.’
‘I doubt if Jay knows who she is,’ said Amber. ‘Anyway, she made good her escape, and how!’
They paused by an ancient bridge across the River Cosnier, and while Pommes Frites went to investigate a nearby weir, Monsieur Pamplemousse consulted his guidebook.
‘I think we could be in luck’s way again.’
‘Not one from your private book this time?’ said Amber.
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘There is no need. Bernay seems to be one of those places the world has largely passed by. It even managed to survive all the devastation surrounding it in the Second World War. While the bombers were passing overhead it was covered by a blanket of thick cloud, so they missed seeing a sitting target and went on to obliterate the centre of Évreux barely fifty kilometres away instead.’
‘Life is basically unfair,’ said Amber.
‘And man’s inhumanity to man knows no bounds,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Bernay may have hardly changed over the centuries, but someone on high must have had it in for Évreux in a big way. They say it burnt for almost a week.’
He snapped his book shut and set off back the way they had come, stopping outside a small restaurant on the right to study the menu.
‘I think this will suit us admirably,’ he announced.
Ushering the others inside, he seated Amber in a shady corner of a courtyard at the rear of the building and, leaving Pommes Frites in charge, returned to the front of the house to place their order.
‘I have kept it simple,’ he said on his return. ‘Mussels to begin with. They may take a while to prepare – it’s fairly labour intensive and the wife does all the cooking, but I have a feeling it will be worth the wait. I asked if we could skip the main course and they bring us a cheese board instead. To finish, there is tarte aux pommes.’
The words were hardly out of his mouth before the patron arrived with a tray of apéritifs: two glasses containing something pale and chilled, and a plate of cheese gougères, the latter feather-light and clearly fresh from the oven.
‘They must have seen us coming,’ remarked Amber, after he had departed.
‘Or going past the first time, more like,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly.
He held his glass up to the light. ‘I thought you might like to try this. Pommeau: two-thirds apple juice, one-third Calvados. It should go well with the moules.
‘From all you have said,’ he continued, as they settled back in their wicker-work chairs, ‘I strongly suspect that by now your boss must be in a state of panic – going round and round like a fly caught in a jar. Here he is, on the run in a strange country, unable to speak the language and not knowing where to head for next. His biggest mistake so far is not to have taken advantage of your being here.’
Amber gave a shrug. ‘That’s Jay for you. He is basically a loner at heart.’
‘In a way,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘having seized on what must have seemed like a heaven-sent opportunity to escape the Mafia, there is no going back. I still maintain his best hope is to lie low for a while in some highly populated area, hoping the whole thing will blow over in time.’
‘Then he will have another think coming,’ said Amber. ‘Once the Mob have someone in their sights, they never give up.’
‘A chilling thought,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Perhaps we should start by asking ourselves where he wouldn’t go?’ suggested Amber.
‘Or perhaps oughtn’t to,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I agree with your suggestion that if he stays in Normandy he might end up for the time being somewhere near the sea. At this time of the year it would have the advantage of there being a floating population, but he would do well do avoid any of the big resorts boasting a casino …’
‘How come most of them seem to be by the sea?’ asked Amber. ‘Don’t they have any inland?’
‘Blame the Emperor Napoleon,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In his wisdom he ordained they should only be allowed in places where there were thermal springs. His theory being that none but the very rich would stay in such places, and they could well afford to play.’
‘Protecting the poor from themselves,’ said Amber. ‘Good old Napoleon.’
‘That was the way his mind worked. Nowadays, any city with more than half a million inhabitants can have a casino, provided it supports the local arts.
‘My point is that once again Corby needs to be careful since nobody is allowed into a casino without producing a passport.’
He broke off as the patron reappeared, carrying three large bowls. The first contained a steak haché for Pommes Frites, who attacked it with unbridled enthusiasm. The other two bowls were filled with pyramidal arrangements of tiny moules resting in their half shells rising out of a sea of liquid.
‘It is the local version of what on the west coast is called Mouclade,’ explained Monsieur Pamplemousse, after the patron had returned with two smaller finger bowls and a basket of fresh bread.
‘Every coastal region of France has its own version of how it is prepared. Basically, the broth is made with white wine, saffron, onions, garlic and egg yolk, but because we are in Normandy they will have naturally added butter, cream and Calvados as a matter of course.’
‘Naturally,’ echoed Amber. ‘If you ask me, it looks pretty labour-intensive for us to get through as well.’
They sat in silence for a while, concentrating on the task in hand.
‘When Jay does fetch up, wherever it happens to be,’ said Amber, dipping her fingers into one of the bowls of lemon-scented water, ‘is there anything he can do to alter his appearance?’
‘In the long term,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘provided the money holds out, all things are possible. Surgery is obviously the main avenue. He could have a nose job, a hair transplant, cosmetic surgery on his cheek bones … but they all take time.
‘Also, along with a new face, he will need the papers to go with it. Having the correct papers is essential in France, although once again, all things are possible if you know the right people.
‘However, in the short term …’ Carefully drying his fingers, he removed Corby’s photo from an inside pocket and studied it. ‘Going by your description of what he normally wears, I would say the first thing he should do is buy a new suit. I don’t mean new new. An old one would be even better.
‘Apart from trying to avoid any mannerisms that would give the game away, there isn’t a lot more he can do at short notice.
‘The days when a simple change of hat would have worked wonders have long gone. Nobody wears a hat these days unless it happens to be part of a uniform. Having one at all would be more likely to draw attention to him.
‘Parting the hair on the opposite side to the one you normally do can be a help … or dyeing it.’
‘He wouldn’t know where to start,’ said Amber. ‘Jay isn’t that domesticated.’
‘In which case he might get himself a wig if he comes across the right shop. If he were in Paris there are dozens in the Boulevard Rochechouart area, literally every other shop in the Boulevard itself, but that’s no help.
‘Adopting a different walk can put people off the scent, but it’s tiring and hard to be consistent, especially near the end of the day. He could have the heels on his shoes raised at any walk-in cobbler. Failing that, the s
tone-in-the-shoe trick works wonders.
‘But of course voices are often a dead giveaway …’
‘Try losing a Bronx accent,’ said Amber.
‘He could grow a moustache, and in the meantime perhaps get hold of a false one from a party shop to tide him over.
‘Eyes are another problem area. Glasses can make a difference. I’m not talking dark glasses, which are often an object of suspicion, but any old pair of ordinary spectacles with the lenses removed. ‘Perhaps a combination of all these things. I still maintain an old suit from a second-hand dealer would give him an entirely different image. It might do something for his body shape as well.’
‘If he didn’t make it with Waist Disposals Inc,’ said Amber, ‘I doubt it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was spared thinking up any more possibilities by the arrival of the cheese platter. It was accompanied by a bowl of unsalted butter, a selection of various other breads in a basket, and a bowl of fruit.
The patron went through the contents of the platter, tapping each one gently with the point of a knife. There was a generous wedge of Camembert, a Livarot wrapped in its bands of striped raffia, a rich golden yellow Pont l’Évêque, and a heart-shaped Neufchâtel, all clearly in perfect condition.
Then, with a ‘Bon appetit’, he was gone.
‘I am willing to bet none of them have ever seen the inside of a refrigerator,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, after a closer inspection. ‘It is the ruination of good cheese.’
‘That may go for Normandy,’ said Amber, ‘but try telling it to a restaurant owner in somewhere like Las Vegas, where it gets to be forty degrees Celsius this time of the year.’
‘Perhaps that is why Corby gave the one he went to such a bad write-up,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, mildly surprised at her tone of voice.
Changing the subject, he moved a small bowl of greyish crystals closer to her. ‘If you haven’t come across this before, try some of it on the fruit. I guarantee you won’t regret it. Fleur de Sel. Arguably the best sea salt in the world.’
‘You never stop working, do you?’ said Amber, as he scribbled a note on a scrap of paper.
‘I’m afraid after a while it becomes second nature,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You should think yourself lucky that for once I don’t have my notebook with me. The downside of my job is not having someone to share the good times with.
‘Pommes Frites is a wonderful companion – I don’t know what I would do without him. He has a good nose and he is a connoisseur of many things, but as you have probably noticed, fish is not one of them; neither is cheese, for that matter. Give him a meal like the one we had last night or a simple steak haché such as he finished before we even began our moules, and he is as happy as a pig in clover.’
‘Nobody’s perfect,’ said Amber. ‘I know one thing: if I carry on like this, it’s going to play havoc with what you laughingly called my carbon footprint.’
‘You have a long way to go.’
‘These things creep up on you,’ said Amber. ‘You two want to watch out – you don’t want to look like Jay. Not that he ever feels the need to do much in the way of sharing.’
‘The answer lies in moderation,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse virtuously. ‘It is the best method of all … eat anything you like, but do so in moderation. You can’t go far wrong.’
Helping himself to the butter, he was about to spread a less generous helping than usual over a wafer thin slice of walnut bread when he felt a vibration in his jacket pocket. Breaking off, he reached for his mobile.
‘Excusez-moi …’
‘Monsieur Pamplemousse?’ The voice at the other end sounded familiar.
‘Oui …’
‘We spoke earlier today …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse held his hand momentarily over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s the concierge again.
‘How did you know my name?’ he asked.
‘I have not always been in Deauville, Monsieur,’ came the response. ‘For many years I held a similar position in Paris. At the time I often saw your picture in the journals, whenever there was an important case … most of all I remember the unfortunate affair involving the girls at the Folies. When you decided to take early retirement it was front-page news …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows heavenwards. Was he doomed to have it follow him around for the rest of his life?
He was about to remonstrate when the concierge, perhaps sensing he was on sticky ground, changed tack.
‘I imagine Monsieur must now be working in a private capacity. They do say once a policeman, always a policeman.’
‘They do indeed,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse wearily. True though it might be, it was also something of an irritation to have it repeated as a well-known fact from time to time.
‘That being so, I thought you might like to know that when the person you were enquiring about checked out, he paid cash.’
‘That is unusual?’
‘At this end of the business and in Deauville of all places, it is practically unheard of. If it is a simple matter of money laundering, guests can use the casino. That is the easiest method of all – and the safest.
‘Another thing which may be of interest to you, Monsieur, is that, in my experience, people who pay cash without apparently giving it a second thought don’t usually assume the bill includes the cost of a lady’s bathrobe. They are provided for the convenience of our guests while they are staying with us. If they wish to take one with them when they leave, they are on sale in the hotel gift shop along with other items of toiletry, perfume in particular.
‘We pride ourselves on the fact that only the best will do. Christian Dior was born on the Contentin coast of Normandy. Granville is where he began life as a couturier – designing costumes for the annual Shrove Tuesday carnival celebrating the local fishermen’s departure for long voyages. The gowns are sold in his honour.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated a brief summary of the conversation to Amber.
She didn’t pick up on the perfume so he was none the wiser what she was wearing.
‘Give Jay his due,’ she said. ‘He knows quality when he sees it.’
‘One other thing while we are talking,’ said the concierge, resuming the conversation. ‘All our guests enjoy the benefit of a leather folder in their room containing information about the hotel and the various amenities at their disposal, not only in the hotel itself, but in the whole area … it saves the desk clerk having to spend most of his time directing them to the Tourist Centre.’
‘Don’t tell me he took that too,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘No, but I had the chambermaid check through the folder in the room he occupied, and she informs me that the section which normally holds a collection of brochures advertising various other resorts had been stripped bare.’
‘And it would have been full when he arrived?’
‘It is one of the maid’s daily duties to make sure it is always kept up to date, Monsieur.’
‘And they are all of places in Normandy? None for Brittany or anywhere else?’
‘They are supplied by the Caen Chamber of Commerce,’ said the concierge simply. ‘Brittany is another world.’
‘What places do they cover?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Deauville itself, of course. And Caen naturellement; it is the cultural capital of the Basse-Normandie. The Normandy beaches, for the landing sites. Rouen for its cathedral, and as a gesture to Les Anglais in memory of Joan of Arc. Mont St Michel, because it is still there, as it has been for a thousand years. Bayeux, for its tapestry. Alençon, for its lace …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked the concierge. The list sounded as though it might go on for ever and the more place names he heard the more formidable the task ahead of them sounded. He was getting value for his €50 after all. Quite how much was hard to say.
‘It is my pleasure, Monsieur. It has been a great honour talking to you. If ever Monsieur intends visiting Deauvill
e again … or if you require any further assistance, please do not hesitate to call me. As you are no doubt aware, in this business we have access to a great deal of information others might not be party to …’
He was quite right, of course. Concierges were a breed apart; members of a unique club that gave them access to secrets many outsiders would give their eye-teeth for. As discreet as any government security agency, they were walking mines of information accumulated over years of service and quicker even than the Internet; solving other people’s problems was their raison d’être.
‘God only knows what he needs with a bathrobe,’ said Amber, when he told her. ‘Walking off with anything that isn’t screwed to the floor doesn’t surprise me, but a bathrobe!
‘Jay was weaned on hotel ashtrays, but he gave up on those a long time ago. The truth is, he is simply not geared to paying for things. I’m surprised he paid good money to stay at the hotel.’
‘He would have been crazy not to,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is as good a way as any of tracking people when you are on the move. That, and using credit cards.’
‘Jay doesn’t believe in credit cards,’ said Amber. ‘If you ask me, he must have brought a lot of cash with him. Or else he’s been printing his own.’
Having no idea of the amount, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided not to tell Amber about the Director’s cash on the nail payment.
‘Either way,’ he said, ‘people often carry with them the seeds of their own destruction.’
‘But why a lady’s bathrobe?’ persisted Amber. ‘That’s what gets me.’
‘His mother?’
‘You have got to be joking. Anyway, what makes it a lady’s as opposed to a man’s?’
‘Perhaps he didn’t even realise there is a subtle distinction. He simply grabbed it on the way out because it was handy. Would you like me to find out?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up his phone and pressed the appropriate button.
‘I am sorry to bother you,’ he said. ‘But can you tell me … what is the difference between a male and a female bathrobe?’