by Michael Bond
Especially when that someone has set his sights on becoming the next mayor when the present one retires, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse.
He considered the matter for a moment or two. ‘When you say she wouldn’t be safe in a hotel, Monsieur, what do you mean …?’
‘Exactly that, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘According to her father she would be far from safe. There are those who would be only too pleased to see her fall under a bus …’
‘In which case,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I would suggest a hotel bedroom is one of the safest places in the world to be …’
Monsieur Leclercq emitted a deep sigh. ‘Please don’t be difficult, Aristide,’ he said. ‘You know very well I was speaking metaphorically. In any case, his greatest fear is the possibility of the girl being kidnapped. Kidnapped and held to ransom.’
‘Are you telling me, Monsieur, that her father – a member of a noble Sicilian family, with connections here, there and everywhere – is unable to put his foot down and prevent her from travelling?’
‘Have you ever tried telling a young girl she mustn’t do something, Aristide?’ asked the Director. ‘It immediately has the opposite effect. Especially in this day and age. I have it on good authority it is what is currently known as “girl power”, and there is a lot of that around these days; more’s the pity.’
Not having fathered any children, Monsieur Pamplemousse had to confess he was unable to offer an opinion on the subject. Although Monsieur Leclercq must suffer the same disadvantage.
‘Anyway,’ he added lamely. ‘The last time I saw her was several years ago, when she was still attending a convent school. She may well have changed by now.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Convents are said to be among the worst breeding grounds for revolt. All those years sublimating girlish desires. Besides, age doesn’t come into it. It starts earlier and earlier. Twenty-one years, sixteen, thirteen; they are all tarred with the same brush. They are a danger to society, wearing skirts that are way above what is known in nautical circles as the plimsoll line; for all the world like those frilly window pelmets in houses of ill repute in days of old, or in present day Amsterdam come to that; an open invitation for those of like mind to enter.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director. It was unlike him to be so vehement on what was, after all, a run-of-the-mill topic.
‘I have an English friend,’ he said. ‘You may recall my mentioning his name from time to time when our paths have crossed – a Monsieur Pickering. He is an expert in security and often quotes a phrase which I believe came originally from the Bible: “It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.”’
Monsieur Leclercq stared at his subordinate while he digested the thought.
‘Not the happiest of synonyms, Pamplemousse,’ he said at last. ‘Why, only this morning I had a hair-raising experience on my way into the office when I encountered a bevy of young girls waiting to cross the road at some traffic lights.
‘Egged on by the others, one of them turned her back towards me and actually had the temerity to lay her satchel on the pavement and bend over it as I drew near. It is little wonder my eyes began to wander. Unfortunately, I lost my concentration on the road ahead just as the traffic lights began to change.’
Removing a handkerchief from his top pocket, the Director dabbed at his forehead as he relived the experience.
‘The net result was I shot the lights, which by then were at red, and in so doing nearly sent a gendarme flying. He was perched on a plinth in the middle of the junction directing the traffic. Luckily it didn’t damage my car, and he managed to jump off it in time.’
‘You are under arrest for dangerous driving?’ hazarded Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Fortunately no, Aristide. The man’s gaze was fixed on the very same girl who, as I drove past her, was actually gyrating on the spot. At least he had the grace to pretend otherwise when he caught my eye. He simply waved a warning finger at me before beckoning her over. As I continued on my way I caught sight of him in my rear-view mirror. He already had his notebook out and was taking down her particulars. I trust he gave the girl a good reprimand.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but wonder if he was after her name and address for reasons beyond the call of duty.
‘I partly blame my choice of car, of course,’ said the Director. ‘It is the downside of driving a top-of-the-range Citroën. It attracts unwanted attention from the hoi polloi wherever I go.
‘We live in an age when the have-nots of this world are only too anxious to despoil anything which comes within range of a knife point or a spray can. For that very reason I had to make use of the underground car park when I arrived this morning. It will cost the company a small fortune in pourboires.’
‘By the same token,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘it shows up yet another advantage of driving a deux chevaux. Apart from the fact that there is little about it that can be defaced, the possibility of making it easy to view ladies’ derrières while on the move probably never occurred to its original designers.
‘It certainly doesn’t give rise to lascivious thoughts in the minds of passers-by, or other drivers for that matter. Unless they happen to be Americans, who find it hard to believe their eyes. People tend to look the other way when I drive past; girls especially.’
But Monsieur Leclercq clearly had other things on his mind. ‘I do agree,’ he said. ‘Whoever coined the phrase “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” was speaking nothing but the simple truth.’
‘I am led to believe it goes back to Ancient Greece,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The 3rd century BC. That is to say Before Citroën.’
‘Well, there you are,’ said the Director, ignoring the feeble attempt at a pun. ‘The Greeks have an eye for these things.
‘All of which doesn’t solve our present problem. In spite of everything, Caterina is the apple of her father’s eye. Chantal’s mother is nearing 106 and hasn’t long to go, so she daren’t cancel her visit. My mother-in-law has become very forgetful in her old age and there is a problem as to whether or not she has made a will. It is exercising us considerably. In the meantime, apart from the staff I am virtually on my own.
‘Tongues wag, Pamplemousse, and that is something I cannot afford to happen in my position. Beside which, I have Le Guide’s reputation to consider and we are getting perilously near to publication, which is why my thoughts turned to your good self.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse did his best to look surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation. It was on his mind to say it would have been nice had the Director sought his views first, but he had left it a split second too late.
Monsieur Leclercq held up a hand to forestall him. ‘Caterina’s father thinks very highly of you, Aristide,’ he said. ‘Which is why I suggest you take over at this juncture.
‘I know for a fact that in his view you tick all the boxes. You may be an ex-member of the Paris Sûreté, but the very reason for your having to take early retirement shows that unlike many of those who shared the same vocation, you have a human side to your nature. I refer, of course, to the affair at the Folies when you were caught scantily clad with a brace and bit in your hand.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse suppressed a sigh. There it was again. It would follow him around forever and there was no going back.
‘How was I to know I had ended up immediately above the girls’ dressing room prior to the first performance of the day?’ he protested. ‘The whole thing was a set-up. I doubt if any them would have cared two hoots if I had drilled a hole through the ceiling. There is safety in numbers and bare derrières would have been the least provocative objects on display.’
‘That is no excuse to go sans pantalons,’ said the Director severely.
‘I happened to loosen my belt,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and they fell down of their own accord.’
‘There are those,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘who might say with a ce
rtain amount of justification that it was a knee-jerk reaction programmed into your system and you had no choice in the matter.’
‘It was a very hot day, Monsieur, and I was on the trail of what I had been told was an important clue in a case I was working on. Rather than bring disrepute to my colleagues in the force, I chose to take early retirement.’
‘Unfortunately, mud sticks, Aristide,’ said the Director. ‘And it is often hard to remove. Nevertheless, I know it appeals to Uncle Rocco’s sense of humour. He has often mentioned it to my wife over the years. Which is why I am sure he would be only too happy if you and your wife chaperone Caterina for the time being and afford her shelter as a guest.
‘Another plus will be the fact that your apartment is in Montmartre, whereas I live beyond the Périphérique, and that would not suit Caterina at all. In her eyes it would be what they call “out in the sticks”, which is not her scene. In common girl’s parlance she would most likely say she “doesn’t do sticks”.
‘Also, and correct me if I am wrong, Aristide, but as I recall, should it prove necessary, you have an escape route from your apartment block via an underground car park with a rear entrance and exit next door to you. You also have Pommes Frites to protect you in the event of any untoward happening.’
‘I know what it is,’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Over and above any views his wife may have on the subject, the old shyster doesn’t relish being on his own when Chantal’s uncle discovers what has happened to his prize truffle, nor does he fancy having Caterina with him in case she is attacked and he has to take the blame for not looking after her.’
In fact, the whole affair was a bit of a mess-up. If Uncle Rocco hadn’t got himself involved in the demise of the restaurant owner in the first place, he wouldn’t be quite so worried about his daughter’s safekeeping now.
‘What am I going to tell Doucette …?’ he began.
‘My advice to you, Pamplemousse, is nothing,’ said the Director. ‘If my wife is anything to go by, the less you tell her the better. By and large, wives tend to go on about things, and once they get the bit between their teeth there is no stopping them. It is worse, far worse than a dripping tap.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a wry smile. Communication might not be a strong point in the Leclercq household, but failing to tell Doucette the whole truth would be a far greater crime in her eyes than coming clean. He would certainly never hear the last of it if he followed the Director’s advice.
‘When exactly is Caterina expected to arrive in Paris?’ he asked.
‘This afternoon,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. Opening one of the drawers in his desk he withdrew a pile of emails. ‘We are supposed to be living in a paperless society, Aristide, but look at this one.’ He held it aloft for Monsieur Pamplemousse to see. Apart from the words TRAIN FROM MILAN ARRIVES GARE DE LYON 13.23. CATERINA, the rest of the A4 sheet was bare.
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. They had spent almost exactly an hour beating about the bush, and one way and another the even tenor of his life had taken a plunge. Quite how he had got there and how it would end up was something else again. It was a fait accompli and no mistake. Once again, he had fallen into a trap and it was too late to do anything about it.
‘I will take up a position by the stairs leading up to Le Train Bleu restaurant,’ he said. ‘It is opposite the quais where trains leave and depart. If I station myself on the balcony at the top of the stairs it will give me a commanding view of the scene.’
‘First-rate thinking, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq approvingly. ‘We don’t want a repeat of the last débâcle, do we?’
‘I know the place of old,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse confidently. ‘And they say lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice.’
Monsieur Leclercq rose to his feet. ‘What would I do without you, Aristide?’ he exclaimed, holding out his hand. ‘If you make good time, you can kill two birds with one stone. By partaking of an early déjeuner you can carry out a spot check on the restaurant itself while you are waiting.’
‘Trouble?’ asked Véronique, as they made their way out via the outer office. ‘I popped my head round the door earlier on but nobody even noticed. There seemed to be a bit of a commotion.’
‘Trouble,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Anything I can do to help?’
‘You could book a table for one at Le Train Bleu for some time after midday,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘No Pommes Frites?’ said Véronique.
‘Sadly, no,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He is indisposed.’
Monsieur Leclercq’s secretary glanced across at Pommes Frites as she reached for the telephone. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘You poor old thing. That’s not like you. Promise you will get well soon.’
‘He nearly swallowed a Tuber melanosporum whole,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I think it is only temporary, but it was a very large one.’
‘It sounds painful,’ said Véronique. ‘I’ll light a candle for him on the way home tonight.’
She gave a sigh. ‘In the meantime, guess who’s going to be slaving over some hot proofs for next year’s guide all day tomorrow? Blinds drawn, phones off the hook, strictly no visitors. It’s decision time for the Stock Pot Brigade. I read out a list of the candidates while the Director listens and reaches his final conclusions. Last year there were twenty-six with three Stock Pots, over eighty with four, and not far short of five hundred with one.
‘It doesn’t end there. Think of all the additional information there is to sort out. Special Awards: Gold, Silver and Bronze Stock Pot lids for the best in their group. Minor Awards in the way of symbols, like a tasting cup for an above-average wine list, or ear plugs for intrusive piped music. Not to mention those being downgraded.
‘My mouth was so dry I got through two bottles of Châteldon.’
‘It was Gertrude Stein who said that French people are unhappy when they are not entirely occupied with the business of living,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And at least Monsieur Leclercq has good taste in his choice of mineral water.’
‘Enjoy your lunch!’ said Véronique wistfully.
1 See Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train
CHAPTER THREE
On his way home, with an unusually sombre Pommes Frites in the back seat of his deux chevaux, Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped a disc of Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World into the player to cheer himself up, after which he began rehearsing what he would say to his wife.
‘Couscous, I have something to tell you,’ was the easy bit. He had to admit that what came after it was more problematical. It depended on her reaction. He tried out a few possibilities …
‘No, chérie, I have no idea how long Caterina will be staying …’
‘She is really quite a simple girl, Doucette. Nothing to write home about.’
‘No, Couscous, I doubt if she will get her culottes in a twist if you serve her croissants for breakfast. Her taste in food is very catholic …’
He made a mental note not to add the obvious rider should the question arise – ‘Assuming she is wearing any’ would be like playing with fire.
He could, of course, sweeten the situation by taking home a bouquet of flowers, but then again, suspicions might be aroused.
As for the Director … he went over the conversation once again in his mind. All other matters aside, why didn’t he come straight out with it and say his wife had put her foot down when he had told her the news? She must have done so with a vengeance. He could hear her voice; ‘Henri! I’m not having you alone here with that girl …’
Switching over to the radio as the traffic slowed down at a junction, he turned up the volume to drown any possible noises coming from the back seat.
A man alongside him in an open car looked startled as the sound of Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ filled the air. Marrying Monsieur Pamplemousse’s lip movements with the music, he raised his hat and accelerated on his way.
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At which point they went over a bump, and as a precautionary measure Monsieur Pamplemousse reached up and opened the canvas roof of his car. Pommes Frites made as if to wag his tail, but immediately thought better of it. At least he had the decency to look the other way.
Slowing down as they joined the rue de Clichy near the end of the journey, Monsieur Pamplemousse completed the rest of it in a more leisurely fashion. Rather too leisurely as things turned out, for as the lift doors opened on the seventh floor of their apartment block in the Place Marcel Aymé he heard a vacuum cleaner going full blast.
It sounded as though Monsieur Leclercq had beaten him to it and already broken the news to Doucette. The old devil! After all he had said. Trust him to make certain there were no escape routes.
He was beginning to think that when it came to floors, seven was his unlucky number, and his worst fears were realised the moment he entered their apartment.
‘Is it that dreadfully plain girl you escorted from Rome that time?’ said Doucette. ‘The one you managed to escape from as soon as the train reached Paris. She sounded as though she was no better than she should be.’
‘That was a long time ago, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, guardedly. ‘Remember, she was still at school. She had only just turned sixteen. Girls tend to branch out when they leave. That must have been a good four years ago. I doubt if I would even recognise her now she is no longer a teenager.’
‘Didn’t you tell me the last time she was in Paris her ambition was to set up a pinarium in the Place des Vosges along with some of the other sixth-form girls from her convent?’
‘Not so much a brothel, chérie,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘More of a maison de tolérance. Or a maison clandestine, if you prefer.’
Doucette unplugged the cleaner. ‘Words! Words!’ she said. ‘What’s in a name? They all amount to the same thing, and if she is anything like you say she is, she wouldn’t have had many clients knocking at the door, that’s for sure.’
‘Not necessarily, Doucette,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It wasn’t her intention to be one of those offering her favours. As ever, she had it all worked out. It was to be in the best possible taste. A bar downstairs with champagne on the house for starters. Luxurious state-of-the-art rest rooms upstairs.