by Michael Bond
‘It also means I can play the favourite game of food inspectors everywhere: “Shall we? Or shan’t we?”
‘What makes non-regulars go into a restaurant? You can almost see their minds working as they study the menu outside and weigh up the pros and cons before peering inside. Is it too crowded? Too empty? Too cheap? Too expensive? Does it have our favourite dish? Why don’t we try something new for a change?
‘And …’ he exchanged the spoon momentarily for his Cross pen and brand new notebook, ‘I think Truffert deserves a vote of thanks. The blending of all the ingredients has been done to perfection. No single one stands out; those that might have done – the chilli, the Calvados and lemon juice – have all been used with restraint and understanding.’
Nobody could accuse him of not doing his best to keep Amber’s mind off the vexed question of Corby’s non-appearance. Whether or not he was succeeding was another matter.
Even Pommes Frites was looking restive, as though he had heard it all before.
The lobster bisque disposed of, Monsieur Pamplemousse fortified himself by draining a glass of draught cider. All too aware of the fact that he was beginning to sound like a walking advertisement for Norman cuisine, he embarked on the subject of escalopes while they awaited their arrival. There was nothing else he could think of to talk about.
‘It is another typical dish from the Auge Valley; the veal is cooked in a mixture of butter and groundnut oil, and the sauce made from double cream and mushrooms. The main difference in this case according to Truffert is that instead of adding Calvados, the chef uses a dry vermouth and it is served with creamed sorrel.’
‘It sounds like another “must” for the private collection,’ said Amber. ‘What’s with sorrel anyway?’
‘Sorrel,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is one of the oldest culinary plants known to man. It is used all over Europe in cooking, as an aid to digesting the food, and for treating all manner of ailments, from bad breath to fixing loose teeth.’
‘Are you trying to tell me something again?’ said Amber.
Above the net curtaining across the lower part of the window Monsieur Pamplemousse caught sight of a group of heads peering in to see how service was progressing, so he hastily tried another tack.
‘It is a sign of the times,’ he mused. ‘Ever since the No Smoking rule came in people spend more time outside restaurants having a quick puff between courses than they do inside it. Ask any street cleaner who has to clear up the butts – their workload has doubled.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, aware that Pommes Frites had suddenly come to life and was sitting up at the ready, nostrils quivering – probably indicating the imminent arrival of the next course, ‘it makes a change from the “Shall we? Shan’t we?” brigade.
‘It takes all sorts. There was a monk sheltering from the rain just now, black habit and all. He took one look inside and he was off like a shot—’
The full import of what he had just said took a moment or two to penetrate.
‘Did it have a hood?’ demanded Amber.
‘It did …’
‘Jesus wept!’
Grabbing her evening bag, Amber leapt to her feet and was out through the door before he had a chance to say any more.
Ignoring the imminent arrival of the main course, Monsieur Pamplemousse, with Pommes Frites at his heels, followed suit, but she was already way ahead of them.
Weaving his way in and out of the parked cars in the central reservation, he was about to emerge on the side nearest the marina when he heard her call out.
Seconds later there came the unmistakable sound of a revolver. First one shot, then two in quick succession. Heart in his mouth, he came to an abrupt halt.
Signalling Pommes Frites to stay at his side, he began inching his way forward around the side of a van, then almost immediately froze as he found himself confronted by the barrel of a gun.
He recognised it at once: a semi-automatic Russian Baikal 9mm conversion. Capable of firing ten rounds, assuming it had a full magazine to begin with, that meant there were seven left.
Almost imperceptibly, he began moving his left hand slowly upwards.
The barrel of the gun moved too, but in a downward direction.
‘Don’t even think it,’ said a voice.
Normally Monsieur Pamplemousse would have put the odds in favour of Pommes Frites, but he knew he would never forgive himself if the worst happened. It was a no-win situation.
He closed his eyes. ‘I shall count up to ten,’ he said. ‘And then I never want to see you again.’
‘Who’s counting?’ came a whisper.
Despite the warmth of the July rain, a shiver ran down his spine as he first of all felt the barrel of the gun against his stomach, then the speaker’s lips against his. They were ice cold.
It was several moments before he was able to carry on, and by then he had lost count of where he had got to anyway.
When he eventually opened his eyes Amber was nowhere to be seen.
Pommes Frites was clearly all for going after her, but at a sign from his master he relaxed. Crossing over to the marina, he peered into it and, having drawn a blank, looked over his shoulder to await further instructions.
It was a strange turn of events. One moment Monsieur Pamplemousse and the girl had been happily talking about food, or so it seemed, although in his view it had been rather one-sided, the next moment they were having some kind of disagreement. That hadn’t lasted more than a moment or two before it was a case of kiss and make up. Or was it? The girl had certainly disappeared; leaving his master mopping his brow with the present she had given him.
It was all very puzzling.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘A woman in the Mafia!’ exclaimed Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Whatever is the world coming to, Aristide?’
‘They have been driving trains on the Metro for some years now,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And buses.’
‘Have they really? Extraordinaire!’ The Director sounded relieved that he normally drove himself into the office.
For all his worldly experience, he led a sheltered life by most people’s standards. Like many of those occupying positions of power, he had lost touch with what it was like to be a member of the rank and file. Worse still, he had no idea that he had.
‘Other women have even been sent into space,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘So the news isn’t all bad,’ said Monsieur Leclercq.
Catching sight of the expression on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face, he discarded an object he had been playing with and lay back in his bed.
‘Forgive my somewhat jaundiced responses, Aristide, but I am not a good patient, I fear, and much as I respect members of the opposite sex – indeed, one sometimes wonders where we would be without them – they are inclined to fuss and ask awkward questions. I love Chantal dearly, but I do miss going into the office. If only they could all be like Vèronique and come and go as required at the press of a buzzer.
‘Anyway, enough of my complaining … you had reached the point where Corby, having dyed his bathrobe black, encountered unforeseen difficulties drying it …’
‘Something any woman would have foreseen,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It was made of extremely thick material.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the Director wearily, ‘but if she was remotely like my wife he would never have heard the last of it. In any case, what was he doing wearing it while out and about in Caen late at night? It was asking for trouble.’
‘I think his purpose was two-fold,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Most of all he needed to have it thoroughly dry before he moved on, but he also probably thought it was a good opportunity to test its effectiveness as a disguise under field conditions.
‘Unfortunately it began to rain, undoing all his good work. And even more unfortunately for him, he happened to seek shelter in the very restaurant where we were dining—’
‘A thousand to one chance,’ hazarded Monsieur Leclercq.
‘Not really. The area around the marina was an obvious place to take a stroll. It was away from the bright lights, and the restaurant was one of the few along the Quai Vendeuvre with a canopy outside affording some kind of shelter. People were constantly looking in to see what was going on. I imagine he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw us sitting there.’
‘And the girl – the one you call Amber – shot him. Just like that. In cold blood?
‘Only after a chase in the pouring rain,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Hardly mitigating circumstances in a court of law, Aristide!’
‘That aspect is not something which normally causes members of the Mafia to lose any sleep,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘And you have not seen or heard anything from her since?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. To have told the whole truth might have prolonged the conversation far beyond his original intentions.
Monsieur Leclercq fell silent while he tried to picture the scene.
‘I suppose,’ he said at last, ‘from all you have told me, the world is probably a better place without Corby. He was a blot on the escutcheon of our profession.’
‘Almost certainly,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And it was as clean a way as any to go. Marinas don’t recognise carbon footprints.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘it must have come as a shock to you. Had you no inkling of the kind of person the girl was?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse opened his wallet and removed the photograph he had taken of Amber at the gare, and which he’d had printed during his shopping expedition in Caen.
The Director scanned it with interest. ‘I do see the problem. It wouldn’t have occurred to me, either. I doubt if you would have been her first beau, Pamplemousse. Nor her last. Unless, of course …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily disabused him of the thought.
‘You are a funny chap, Aristide,’ said the Director unexpectedly. ‘What stopped you?’
‘When the possibility arose,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I had some telephone calls to make. I also felt Pommes Frites had his reservations, and I trust his judgement. He doesn’t miss much. Little things … like when she adjusted my trouser leg ends on the very first morning …’
‘Pretty forward stuff,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘He had a point. That is strictly wives only territory.’
‘You have experienced it, Monsieur?’
‘It happened soon after Chantal and I met. It was at a golf club and I was wearing plus fours at the time – an invention of Les Anglais. She had never come across anything quite like them before. We have laughed about it many times since.’
‘I suspect Amber was actually rather lonely,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There is such a thing as being too beautiful. Men either think they must be spoken for, or they see them as a plaything. The first wasn’t so, and the second was not what she wanted.
‘It was hard at times to tell which part of her life was real and which was make-believe.’
‘When did you begin to suspect her?’
‘Quite early on. She seemed too good to be true. So much so, I began laying traps by planting some loaded questions. It is an old trick much used during the last war when interrogating suspect spies.
‘First of all you lull them into a false sense of security, then you casually slip a glaringly false statement into the conversation.
‘She told me that after leaving the Crazy Horse she worked for, among others, Pierre Gagnaire and Alain Ducasse, so I brought up the subject of Paul Bocuse’s 80th birthday celebration, suggesting it took place at Versailles and that Ducasse did all the cooking.’
‘And she fell for it?’ exclaimed the Director. ‘I would have thought it was common knowledge the venue was the ballroom of the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo. Chefs came from all over the world to help prepare the dishes. It was a magnificent affair. I remember it well. No wonder your suspicions were aroused, Aristide.’
‘Not only that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but she went on about it a shade too long.
‘There were other minor matters: vagueness about Corby’s background in general and how they first met. At the same time she certainly knew more about the restaurant business than she was prepared to let on. I felt I was preaching to the converted. She automatically formed a very neat Bishop’s Hat with her napkin when we were leaving the restaurant in Bernay, and although she said that since going to America she had spent all her time in New York, she spoke as though she had first-hand experience of the problems restaurateurs face in Las Vegas.’
‘You did very well, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director approvingly. ‘So we have no cause for alarm.’
‘I think I can safely reassure you on that score, Monsieur.’
‘Good. Good. Tell me, as a matter of interest, how did she bring the gun into the country? I thought they were very hot on such things these days.’
‘She had no need to. She must have picked it up when she got here. I rang an old colleague and he brought me up to date.
‘They are manufactured in the Russian town of Izhevsk, home to the AK47 and some eighty per cent of other Russian firearms. Originally designed as a lightweight protective weapon for firing tear gas, it is made of solid steel, so it lends itself to easy conversion for firing live ammunition. Converted in Lithuania, it has become known as the “hitman’s gun”. In France, they come shrink-wrapped in a box, and cost around €250. They are also small enough to fit into a lady’s evening bag.’
The Director passed the photograph back to Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I take it you will be handing this in to the appropriate quarter?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head.
The Director looked shocked. ‘Pamplemousse! I am surprised at you. It makes a mockery of that old adage: “once a policeman, always a policeman”.’
‘With respect, Monsieur, I beg to differ. There are times when even a policeman has to act as both prosecuting counsel and counsel for the defence. And then, having weighed up all the evidence, take on the role of judge and jury into the bargain.’
‘And what would be your verdict, Aristide?’
‘Guilty, but with extenuating circumstances. One needs to be pragmatic about these things. I doubt if many people will lose much sleep over Corby’s disappearance, and a whole host of others will breathe a sigh of relief.
‘There were times in the old days when turning a blind eye was the order of the day. Nowadays that isn’t quite so easy. For once, I shall indulge in the luxury of taking my time about it. That apart, there is Le Guide’s involvement to think of, the attendant publicity is the very thing you wished to avoid.’
Monsieur Leclercq sat up straight and extended a hand. ‘Pamplemousse,’ he said, ‘there will always be a position for you in our legal department, but I sincerely hope you won’t see fit to make the change.’
Patently, Monsieur Leclercq had other matters on his mind. Having got Corby off his chest, he could hardly wait to change the subject. Reaching out for the object he had been toying with, he held it up for Monsieur Pamplemousse to see.
‘It is what is known as an iPhone,’ he announced. ‘An extraordinary device. It is hard to picture, I know, but I have it on good authority that this tiny piece of equipment is more sophisticated than a dozen office computers put together.
‘Through the medium of the web, it can not only tell you where you are at any given moment, it can plan your route to wherever it is you are going, update you on road conditions, tell you what is on at the local cinema when you get there, and while you are waiting, you can listen to music, take pictures or play games. The list of all it has to offer is practically endless and it is growing all the time.
‘The President of the United States of America presented its forerunner – what is known as an iPod, to Queen Elizabeth of England when they first met. It contained all her favourite tunes including “You’ll Never Walk Alone�
�� and “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” …’
Clearly the Director had been got at since they last spoke.
‘I am sure she will find it very useful …’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but …’
There were times when Monsieur Leclercq almost took his breath away. On the one hand, when it came to advances in the world of photography, he prided himself on being at the cutting edge of the latest developments, forever updating Le Guide’s issue camera. In other areas, they completely by-passed him.
It was tempting to suggest that, had he possessed an iPhone when he was lying in the ditch, he could have used the time to good effect.
‘No buts, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely. ‘Chantal gave me this one to help while away the time, and it has proved to be an eye-opener. It is no exaggeration to say that inside this tiny device is where our future lies.
‘What is particularly germane to our function in life is that wherever you happen to be, at the press of a button it can not only give you a list of the nearest restaurants, but provide you with an up to date list of their menus as well.
‘Times are changing, Aristide, and we must change with them. We need to school ourselves to adjust to the world as it is, not as we would like it to be. It is not too much to say that it will enable our own carbon footprint to do its bit towards the common goal. People will no longer need to carry Le Guide around with them as they do now … the world-wide easing of the weight load in itself will be considerable.
‘But we must work fast. Michelin have already taken the first step in what I believe is known as “Going Global”, and we must follow suit.
‘It will need a person of taste and discernment to oversee it all … someone with the breadth of vision, the will power, and above all the willingness to embrace such a project with open arms so that we can move forward with speed to pastures new …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his spirits rising. The Director was in his Napoleonic mode again; albeit a Napoleon lying prone in his bed, but nevertheless in fighting spirit and with his eye on the goal. It was inspirational to say the least, and he took a deep breath.