Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web

by Michael Bond

  ‘What has become of those huge ones from Provence, Aristide? Lycopersicum esculentum; as shapeless as a Marfona potato; but oozing flavoursome juice?

  ‘To take another example; all the year-round strawberries …’

  Aware of a certain amount of movement at his side – the canine equivalent of drumming was the nearest way of describing it – Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily changed the subject while he had the opportunity. When Monsieur Leclercq was riding one of his hobby horses it was often hard to rein him in.

  ‘Nature moves in strange ways its wonders to perform,’ he said. ‘We should not lose sight of the fact that during his time with the Paris Sûreté Pommes Frites was awarded the Pierre Armand Golden Bone Trophy for being best sniffer dog of his year. We still have it in a glass case at home. He is an expert in these matters, and we should take advantage of the fact.’

  ‘What a splendid idea, Aristide,’ said the Director. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

  Pommes Frites pricked up his ears. He hadn’t exactly been following the conversation. All he knew was it had been going on and on and on. So when Monsieur Leclercq picked up the plate on which the truffle reposed and held it out for him to see, it wouldn’t have been overstating matters to say tears of joy and gratitude filled his eyes.

  Even past masters in the art of illusion across the ages, from Heironymus Bosch to Siegfried & Roy, would have been hard put to explain quite how it happened, other than the well-known fact that the quickness of the hand can often deceive the eye, and there was no valid reason why a paw shouldn’t be equally effective.

  It was all over in a fraction of a second.

  In short, there was no getting away from the fact that one moment it was on the plate, the next moment it wasn’t.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Monsieur Leclercq hastily released his grip on the plate, and relieved of the weight of the truffle, which must have been considerable, it fell to the floor and broke in two.

  ‘Did you see that, Pamplemousse?’ he cried. ‘Did you see it? Do something. Don’t just stand there. Do something.’

  In fairness, Monsieur Pamplemousse had been equally taken by surprise at the speed with which it had all happened. The truffle could hardly have had time to touch the side of Pommes Frites’ mouth before it disappeared from view.

  In common with bloodhounds the world over, he was possessed of a capacious mouth with jowls to match, so when the former was closed, the latter successfully concealed what lay beyond them.

  Hopefully, he lifted the jowl nearest to him and peered inside.

  ‘That’s it, Aristide!’ shouted the Director excitedly. ‘Ouvre la porte! Wait while I get a torch.’

  ‘You can hardly call it a door,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, stiffly. ‘And there is no need for more light. All I can see is a row of white teeth.’

  It was a wonder the truffle hadn’t lodged in Pommes Frites’ throat, but further inspection having revealed nothing of note, he released his hold of the jowl.

  ‘What goes in must come out … eventually,’ he said lamely, as it fell back into place.

  ‘Eventually!’ boomed the Director. ‘This is no time to be talking about eventually, Pamplemousse. It could be tomorrow, two days’ time, or a week. I am talking about now. This very instant. Why can’t we give him a good shake and see what happens?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the pros and cons.

  ‘As you wish, Monsieur,’ he said dubiously. ‘But I must warn you, Pommes Frites is no lightweight. The last time I put him on the scales he registered over fifty kilos. Besides, I don’t have a plastic bag with me and I can’t picture him taking kindly to being shaken without having one near at hand. He is a creature of habit and like most animals, when you try to make them do something they would rather not do, they become a ‘dead’ weight.

  ‘Would Monsieur like to take hold of his head, or would you prefer to grasp what, for want of a better phrase, one might call, “the business end”?’

  Monsieur Leclercq hesitated. Detecting signs of movement from the figure on the floor, he stood back.

  ‘Perhaps you are right, Aristide,’ he said grudgingly.

  Having recognised several keywords in the Director’s soliloquy and put two and two together, Pommes Frites was also having second thoughts.

  Struggling to his feet, he headed across the room leaving a trail of minor rumbles somewhat akin to shock waves in his wake, rumbles that as ill luck would have it culminated in a major explosion at the far end of the room beneath a portrait of Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, founder of Le Guide.

  It was probably a trick of the light, but as the sound echoed and re-echoed round the office it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse rather forcibly that Monsieur Duval’s gimlet eyes, which normally appeared to follow you around the room, were concentrated on a waste bucket that stood to one side of the Director’s drinks cupboard.

  Breaking the silence that followed, Monsieur Pamplemousse called Pommes Frites to his side. He put his arms round his waist and gave him a hug. ‘There, there …’ he said. ‘Better out than in.’

  Turning to the Director he endeavoured to make amends on behalf of his friend and mentor. ‘In much the same way as when you warm a glass of cognac in your hands, the vapour given off is known as “The Angel’s Share”, Monsieur. So, when you hold a dog close to you, that, too, has a particular smell …’

  ‘I shudder to think what that might be in Pommes Frites’ case,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘And if you are suggesting we open a bottle of Roullet Très Hors d’Age cognac to take the taste away, now is hardly the moment. You might at least train him to put a paw over his mouth when he does that kind of thing.’

  ‘I doubt if it would have made the slightest difference in the circumstances,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Realistically, it would be a difficult manoeuvre at the best of times.’

  ‘What do you mean …?’ began the Director. Then, as the truth dawned on him, he made a dash for the windows and hastily flung one open.

  ‘Must you always take Pommes Frites with you wherever you go, Pamplemousse?’ he demanded. ‘We might have had company. Madame Grante going through the monthly expenses par exemple. I very much doubt if she suffers such problems with her Jo Jo.’

  ‘The answer is “yes”,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse stoutly. ‘I do take him with me whenever I can. And with great respect, Monsieur, you were happy enough to seek his expert opinion on the validity of the truffle. Now you have the answer and it couldn’t be plainer. As for Madam Grante’s budgerigar, I very much doubt if it would consider itself in the running to compete with Pommes Frites. And even if it did, it wouldn’t dare to. It would have fallen off its perch by now with its little legs in the air trying to avoid blotting its copybook in such an unseemly manner.’

  He braced himself for the response, but realised he was clutching at straws. The Director was visibly deflated.

  ‘Touché, Pamplemousse!’ he admitted. ‘Although, if you don’t mind my saying so, there are times when Pommes Frites’ methods leave a lot to be desired.’

  He stood for a while staring out at the passing scene.

  It was his habit at such moments to strike a pose while making a passing reference to the Emperor Napoleon, whose body lay entombed in the Hôtel des Invalides further up the road, but for once suitable comparisons were clearly not forthcoming.

  After what seemed like an eternity he turned away from the window.

  ‘Forgive me, Aristide,’ he said. ‘I have a lot of things on my mind at the moment, and there is one other small matter which is causing me some concern.’

  ‘Here it comes,’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. True to form, Monsieur Leclercq had been saving the nitty-gritty, the main reason for his being called in, until last. In all likelihood it would be a case of for ‘small matter’ read ‘ominously large’.

  ‘To put it bluntly,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘Chantal’s Uncle Rocco is having trouble with one of his daughters.’r />
  Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t deny feeling a frisson of excitement at the news. ‘Not Caterina?’ he said. ‘The one you asked me to escort from Rome to Paris a few years ago? If you recall we came up on the night train. The Palatino. They had done away with the restaurant car and replaced it with a buffet, so I was unable to submit a report regarding the standard of the cuisine.’

  ‘The very same,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Escorted her all the way from Rome, Pamplemousse, and then, for want of a better word, mislaid her at the Gare de Lyon.

  ‘She is travelling up from Milan and Chantal’s Uncle Rocco would consider it a great favour if someone from Le Guide could be at the station to meet her. It seems he doesn’t entirely trust her.’

  ‘Not without reason,’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. He wondered if he should tell the Director exactly what had happened on Caterina’s previous ill-fated visit, but decided against it. It was a complicated story and there was a time and a place for everything.

  Instead, taking a leaf out of Pommes Frites’ book, he gave his friend a gentle pat and decided to await developments. In many respects it was much the easiest course. It didn’t take much intuition on his part to guess the direction in which the conversation was heading. Patience was the order of the day.

  Given that Monsieur Leclercq seemed to have temporarily lowered his guard, he returned to the attack.

  ‘Regarding Caterina’s unfortunate disappearance the last time she visited Paris,’ he said, ‘it would be more fitting to say that for reasons of her own making, it was she who gave us the slip. Were he able to talk, Pommes Frites would vouch for the fact that it was a deliberate move on her part. It took us both by surprise. It was all the more surprising because until that moment Caterina and I had enjoyed our time together.

  ‘As soon as the nuns who had delivered her to my keeping on Rome’s Stazione Termini disappeared, she became a different person; almost as though a heavy weight had been removed from her being.’

  Even more so, he reflected, by the time they went into dinner. Having replaced the regulation dark blue skirt reaching well below her knees with a fashionably short, dark red dress, she had looked breathtakingly beautiful.

  ‘I still recall those “before” and “after” pictures you took,’ said the Director, breaking into his thoughts. ‘First the group photograph of her with the nuns on the station platform, then the one on the train before you dined. Quite extraordinary.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to add that even after all this time he still carried yet another photograph in his wallet taken after they had dined. With the top button of her dress undone and a glow in her cheeks from the champagne, she had looked absolutely ravishing.

  For a split second he wondered if he should show it to the Director, but he quickly decided against the idea. It was bound to be misinterpreted.

  ‘Despite the fact that the Palatino’s renowned travelling restaurant had been replaced by a run-of-the-mill buffet car, one way and another Caterina and I had a very pleasant journey,’ he said. ‘It was a disappointment, of course, but she was in high spirits. We even found ourselves laughing when I told her about the picture of a steak similar to the one we were eating, which was on display opposite the chef’s galley.

  ‘Presumably, as well as being there to titillate the taste buds of potential customers, it also acted as an aide-mémoire to the chef in case he had forgotten what it should look like when fully garnished.’

  In fact, the only downside to the whole evening had been an Italian sitting on the other side of the aisle who had been listening in to every word of their conversation. Monsieur Pamplemousse had instinctively taken a dislike to him. It wasn’t just the way he dressed: the pointed, impeccably polished black shoes, the loudness of his dark striped suit, or the matching brushed-back brilliantined black hair. It was simply because the man’s eyes were hidden behind some impenetrable Bausch & Lomb dark glasses1, making it impossible to outstare him. He had mentally christened him ‘Il Blobbo’.

  ‘It just so happens there was an unfortunate slip-up when we reached the Gare de Lyon and it was time to disembark,’ he said. ‘Pommes Frites and I found the corridor blocked by an American couple with all their luggage. It was like a small mountain, and by the time I managed to scale the lower slopes she had disappeared.’

  ‘A flimsy excuse, Aristide. Especially for an ex-member of the Paris Sûreté,’ said Monsieur Leclercq.

  ‘In retrospect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘it didn’t altogether surprise me. She was a spirited young lady, even though she was still at school. There was a strong streak of her father in her. I suspect she bribed the Americans to hinder our progress. They certainly did a good job.’

  He paused, conscious of the fact that Monsieur Leclercq didn’t know the half of it. Memories of his return to the Gare de Lyon later that day in a last-ditch effort to find her came flooding back.

  He had arrived at the Gare a quarter of an hour or so before the Palatino left for its return journey to Rome. Boarding had only just begun so he had been able to waylay the attendant who had served them on the way up from Rome. After a certain amount of questioning, the man revealed that on disembarking from the train, rather than make for the main exit, at his suggestion Caterina had used one of several smaller exits dotted along the length of the platform.

  The man’s words were still crystal clear in his mind. ‘I think, signor, she was trying to avoid someone.’

  His embarrassment as he let fall the vital piece of information clearly showed who he thought that person was, which added a certain poignancy to the fact that less than half an hour later the Palantino was destined to leave Gare de Lyon for Rome without him, the driver being totally unaware that one of his colleagues was lying on a nearby railway line, the decorated head of a silver hatpin protruding from a bloodied right ear.

  That there had been some kind of struggle was obvious; for alongside his body lay the trampled remains of some Bausch & Lomb dark glasses with one lens missing.

  ‘À quoi pensez-vous, Pamplemousse?’ said the Director. ‘You appear to have something on your mind.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse weighed his options before responding. Which was it to be? A clear account of all that had taken place during Caterina’s previous visit, or simply drawing a veil over the whole thing? He came down heavily in favour of the latter. Life was too short for such complications.

  ‘Don’t tell me something has happened to Caterina,’ he said.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied the Director vaguely, as though he were choosing his words with care; placing undue emphasis on the word yet. ‘Unfortunately, she has it in mind to spend some time in Paris.’

  ‘Oh, là, là!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘“Oh, là, là!” is right,’ echoed Monsieur Leclercq.

  ‘It is a nice time of the year to be here,’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Even Doucette’s window box is showing signs of life.’

  He couldn’t help wondering why on earth he had been called in to be told something quite so mundane. There must be more to it than that.

  ‘Late February and early March have their own charms,’ he continued, playing for time. ‘The leaves on the trees in the Tuileries are in bud …’

  ‘Spring is in the air,’ agreed Monsieur Leclercq. ‘The fashion shows are in full swing … not just in Paris, but everywhere in the world. Chantal has mentioned the fact to me more than once, and doubtless your wife has too …’

  ‘Not that I have noticed,’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. But if the girl was travelling up from Milan, the very epicentre of the world of fashion, that could be behind her visit. Perhaps his worst fears were groundless after all.

  ‘We did discuss Caterina’s future on the train,’ he said. ‘Her ambition was to become a fashion model after she left school – and with her looks and her figure it is easy to picture it all. She had everything worked out; first of all a spell of modelling; top models are in great demand and they ear
n big money. Then, assuming that was successful, she planned to open a boutique near the avenue Montaigne, or some equally suitable area in Paris. If that took off, there was the prospect of branches in other parts of the world; London, Berlin, New York … Japan … even in Milan itself.

  ‘It struck me as being extremely pie in the sky, but she was so enthusiastic I had no wish to dampen her. We had a long discussion about the possibilities during our journey. I got the impression she wanted to unburden herself to someone other than her parents, who were not very sympathetic to the idea.’

  ‘Not very sympathetic is putting it mildly,’ said the Director. ‘According to my wife, the very thought of Caterina parading on a catwalk in scanty garments is total anathema to her Uncle Rocco.’

  ‘The Mafia can be very uptight about their womenfolk displaying themselves to all and sundry,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They harbour old-fashioned views on such matters. It is probably why she was sent to a convent in the first place, although paradoxically, that had the opposite effect.

  ‘As I say, she had it all worked out,’ he continued. ‘And with her single-minded approach to life and her father’s backing, assuming he eventually relents, she could go far …’

  ‘I have received a series of what you choose to call emails,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘While she is in Paris he suggests she stays, not in a hotel, but in our house.

  ‘He feels she wouldn’t be safe in a hotel, and it couldn’t have happened at a more inconvenient time. My wife is on her way to Switzerland at this very moment visiting her mother, so apart from the staff I am all on my own. It wouldn’t be right and proper to harbour a young maiden. I live in a small village and you know what small villages are like. Tongues would wag.’