by Michael Bond
‘Ah,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That brings me to the reason why I am here.’
Reaching inside his jacket he produced Doucette’s photograph and held it up for everyone to see. ‘I simply ask to make sure all of those who were present at the time are agreed that this is the girl who collected it.’
‘I spoke to her when she arrived,’ said Mlle Ranier. ‘She couldn’t have been nicer.’
‘Utterly charming,’ agreed the Director. ‘She spoke very highly of your wife, Pamplemousse. They got on like a house on fire.
‘We only wish we could have seen more of her, but she was in a terrible hurry as it was. The phone message I mentioned when we spoke, whoever it was from, and whatever it was about, really clinched matters. She went as white as a sheet, and having dropped the mobile in her haste, made a dash for it.’ He pointed to the spot on the floor where it had landed.
‘She didn’t even sign herself out, let alone have time to wave goodbye,’ said Mlle Ranier. ‘The girls on the front desk were very upset.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse lowered the photograph, and it was only then that he delivered his bombshell. ‘I ask,’ he said, ‘because the girl in this picture is not Caterina.’
His words had the desired effect.
Madame Grante suffered an immediate attack of palpitations and having produced a phial of smelling salts from her handbag and taken a good sniff, she offered it around, but there were no takers.
‘Can this be, Pamplemousse?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Are you absolutely positive?’
‘Never more certain,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I very much fear we are the victims of a plot.’ He was about to add more when a faint buzzing sound came from the object on the floor.
For a second or two, as it began to move slowly along the carpet propelled by the vibrations within, all those present stood rooted to the spot until Pommes Frites made a dive for it and having picked the instrument up in his jaws hurried across the room.
Monsieur Pamplemousse dashed after him, shouting asseyez-vous as he went, but for once he called in vain.
Pommes Frites beat his master to Monsieur Leclercq’s waste bucket by a whisker, and as he leant over the side he opened his mouth to relieve himself of the load. There was a loud splash and the buzzing ceased.
Seeing a stream of bubbles rising to the surface, Monsieur Pamplemousse flung off his jacket, rolled up the shirtsleeve of his right arm, and seconds later withdrew a dripping mobile.
He held it up to his ear, but there was nothing. ‘Give it time,’ he said, stifling his embarrassment. ‘I’m sure it will dry out.’
‘Unfortunately time is not on our side, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq severely. ‘It could well be that we shall never know who was making the call until it is too late and it may well have been serious.’
‘I told Hortense not to fill the bin with water,’ said Véronique, coming to Pommes Frites’ rescue in the silence that followed. ‘But she would have her way. She said it needed a good clean-out after what happened before.’
‘I’m sure he meant well,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Madame Grante gave vent to another loud sniff which was another way of saying: ‘Catch Joey doing a thing like that!’
‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘Pommes Frites would be better employed if he made use of his olfactory powers to find a replacement truffle for us. I think it is the least he can do in the circumstances. A real one, even if it is only half the size of the original, would be some recompense to Chantal’s uncle.’
‘It isn’t as straightforward as that, I fear,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is already getting late in the year for anything anywhere near the size we would need.
‘As for the original faux truffle … Had it not already been collected, I was going to suggest it could perhaps be airmailed back to Japan. It wasn’t damaged beyond repair. All it really needed was a good clean-up.’
He could have said more, but glancing down he changed his mind.
Pommes Frites’ eyes looked so full of joy it was impossible to be cross with him. As if to underline matters, instead of his tail wagging to and fro as it normally did when he was pleased about something, it was performing definite arcs in the air behind him: a classic sign if ever there was one that not only was he over the moon with his handiwork, he wanted to share the outcome with his master.
In many respects it was reminiscent of his behaviour with the original truffle, and since it meant nothing more than that to Monsieur Pamplemousse, for the time being at least, there was nothing more he could add to it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Where have you been, Aristide?’ said Doucette when they eventually reached home. ‘The stuffed peppers must be like bullets by now.’
‘We could go out to eat,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There’s that restaurant in rue des Martyrs you wanted to try … Le Miroir. It should be listed in next year’s guide. It’s been put forward as a candidate for a wrought-iron table and chair. That will put it a step or two above a bar stool.’
‘And the rue des Martyrs is several steps above where I want to go at this time of night,’ said Doucette. ‘Besides, it’s probably packed out by now. If Pommes Frites can manage bones, he should be able to get his teeth into my peppers. I can rustle up something else for us. Heaven knows we’ve enough things that need using up.
‘I had been toying with trying my hand at making a mozzarella and basil pizza, but I’ve given up on the idea.’
‘That doesn’t sound like you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Giving up, I mean.’
‘There comes a time,’ said Doucette. ‘You are right about one thing, Aristide. In certain respects Italian cuisine hasn’t changed in a hundred years. To start with, according to my book, in order to make a satisfactory Neapolitan pizza you need a wood-fired oven. Nothing else will do. It requires that amount of heat.’
She held up a hand. ‘I know what you’re going say, but where would we put it? Knowing you, it would probably come gift-wrapped and I have enough problems getting rid of all the waste paper as it is.
‘Secondly, the flour used to make the base needs to be as fine as it can possibly be – almost like talcum powder, and when you have made the dough it should be allowed to rise slowly to room temperature for twenty-four hours …’
‘I do see your problem, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But if it’s of any consolation, and it grieves me to say it, I’m not sure Pommes Frites deserves anything at all. We are not exactly popular back at the works.’
He related at length what had taken place in the Director’s office.
‘That sounds very unlike him too,’ said Doucette.
‘I think he was trying to tell me something and I feel I’ve let him down,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It was one of those phones that vibrates rather than rings. I don’t know if he thought it was something alive or not.’
‘Perhaps it has to do with that particular telephone,’ said Doucette. ‘If you remember, I told you it had a similar effect on him when it went off while she was here.
‘Incidentally, that man with the dog came past again while you were out. You could set your watch by them. Huit heures précises, midi, et dix-huit. He waited around a bit longer than usual reading a hand-held while his dog had a biscuit or two. They had come up the hill and his little legs were going so fast you could hardly see them. I think he was in need of some sustenance.
‘Anyway, I want to hear about all the other things going on at the office and we can’t talk if we’re in a crowded restaurant.
‘What is happening to Le Guide? When I tried to phone you the girl on the switchboard wanted to know my date of birth and my mother’s maiden name. She even asked me where I was born. Anyone would think I was wanting to set up an account with American Express. She ought to be able to recognise my voice by now.’
‘She was only obeying my instructions, Couscous.’
‘Your instructions?�
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‘History is repeating itself,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The Director has promoted me to the post of Chef de Sécurité. CS for short, but as the old saying goes “Not for long”, I hope.’
‘And you said yes like you did the last time?’ said Doucette. ‘Acting unpaid I presume.’
‘I could hardly say no,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You know how Monsieur Leclercq is about any publicity, especially at this time of the year. He’s like the proverbial cat on hot bricks. The media would have a field day if he brought the police in, or any big security organisation come to that, and at least I still have my unofficial connections with the Sûreté. Jacques is as good as his word. He won’t let it go any further.’
‘That only answers the first half of my question,’ said Doucette.
‘We are all in it together,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides it’s only temporary. I don’t need to be paid for it. In the meantime, for better or worse, I have put the whole organisation on alerte rouge. I am not too popular as it is and I don’t want to make it any worse by getting paid extra for it into the bargain.’
‘What happened to the Director’s so called “three As rule”?’ said Doucette. ‘Action; Accord; Anonymat. As far as I can see they are all conspicuous by their absence. Apart from anything else, I thought he always had a routine check by an outside company before you went to press.’
‘I’m taking care of the action,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I’m hoping “accord” will come as a matter of course and as anonymously as possible if we all keep our mouths shut.
‘As for the routine check, as ever it’s centred on Monsieur Leclercq’s office and it’s not exactly on the cutting edge of today’s security. They check behind the Founder’s portrait to make sure there isn’t a hidden microphone planted there, “as happened when the Russians presented the American Ambassador with the Great Seal of the United States after the last war”, which rather says it all.
‘We have moved on in the world of electronic surveillance since then.
‘They check the telephone handsets and all the power points to make sure there are no hidden devices. There is a lot of empty space in the average handset. The covers can be removed in a matter of seconds and they are just crying out for a ‘drop-in’ bug, which nowadays can be powered by the telephone itself.
‘They then go outside on the balcony to make sure there are no directional microphones within range, while the Director pays a visit to his drinks cupboard to fuel their enthusiasm. It is part of an annual ritual and is a social occasion.’
‘They ought to look in the drinks cupboard for a start,’ said Doucette.
Monsieur Pamplemousse went on to enumerate other possible suspect areas, but before he had finished their own phone began to ring.
‘Don’t worry about answering it,’ said Doucette. ‘It’s probably another “hang-up”. I’ve had three already since you left for the office.’
‘Have you now?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse registered the fact without further comment. He filed it alongside the man with the dog. He could do without both of them.
It wasn’t the moment to suggest his wife might like to stay with her sister Agathe in Melun until everything had blown over, so he put that on ‘hold’ as well.
‘I suppose you’ll be bundling me off to my sister in Melun for safekeeping next,’ said Doucette. ‘If it’s anything like last time, I shan’t see you for goodness knows how long. I love her very dearly, but two days is more than enough. As for her cooking …’
‘It wouldn’t be for long,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I’ll make sure of that. Besides there isn’t that much time left before publication day.’
‘Perhaps Pommes Frites could keep guard while you’re busy at the office this time?’ suggested Doucette.
‘I think not, Couscous. Although I say it myself, he is a typical bloodhound. His nerve centre resides in the end of his nose, which is why it’s bigger than most other dogs. Even his ears are overlarge on purpose, not because they are an aid to his hearing, but simply so that with a couple of shakes of his head he can direct any scent in the right direction. They are also blessed with a phenomenal memory. He wouldn’t think twice about following a week-old trail to Kathmandu and back if required, and he would guard you with his life if he thought someone was attacking you. One scream and he would be right by your side.
‘But he is like all bloodhounds. In his heart of hearts he is also meek and mild and everybody’s friend, so he is just as likely to give any intruder a welcoming lick before passing judgement.’
Doucette changed the subject. ‘Did you find out the answers to all your questions, Aristide?’
‘It was much as I expected it to be,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Véronique is right when she says communication has gone completely over the top. There is so much information flying around, a great deal of it of no use to anyone, or none of their business anyway. The atmosphere must be getting weighed down by it all. It’s no wonder the weather has been so bad lately.
‘We live in a world where we see people communicating with each other all the time. They roam the streets with what looks like an umbilical cord that has been split down the middle, so that once they have disentangled all the knitting, both ends can be attached, one to each ear.
‘Or else they wander past you, seemingly talking to themselves in a loud voice, utterly oblivious to the fact that all those around them can hear everything they say.
‘Worst of all are the ones who get off a train or bus and immediately stop dead in their tracks in order to type in a text message telling someone, who probably lives just round the corner, they are on their way.
‘Even cinemas suffer little pockets of light as half the audience take it into their heads to send and receive text messages, oblivious to the fact that they are spoiling the film for others.
‘As for emails. They are a wonderful invention; ideal for sending a round-robin message when it’s a matter of conveying some piece of general information that doesn’t require immediate action. But they, too, have their downside. The worst aspect is the fact that people who send you an individual message invariably expect an instant reply. The days of being able to sleep on a problem and come up with a measured response the next morning are long since past; more’s the pity – the world has speeded up enough already. And that’s without Facebook and Twitter and goodness knows what else yet to be invented. It’s never-ending, and when it comes to the begetter of it all – the humble telephone – I fear women are the worst offenders.’
‘Have you quite finished?’ asked Doucette.
‘It was the same with the arrangements for Caterina,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, totally undeterred by the interruption. ‘They were either messages that had been emailed or sent by text. I can’t find a single concrete occasion when there is proof positive of there having been an actual voice-to-voice conversation.
‘Interestingly, the message the Director received from the Club des Cent, which was really at the start of everything, appears to have been undated. That fact seems to have gone unnoticed at the time, so I told him his wife could rest easily from now on when she gets back from Switzerland. The restaurant owner’s murder wasn’t as a result of what she misguidedly told her Uncle Rocco.’
‘How about the one asking for Caterina to be met at the Gare de Lyon and nominating you for the job?’
‘The first part was short, to the point and unsigned, so it might have been from anyone.
‘As for choosing me for the task, Monsieur Leclercq unwittingly admitted it was his idea. “I know Chantal’s uncle,” he said. “It was what he would have liked most of all, so I did it to please him.”’
‘And you didn’t query the fact?’ said Doucette.
‘I did,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and do you know what he said? “You don’t query messages from Madame Leclercq’s uncle, Pamplemousse.”
‘In short, he had already convinced himself that it was U
ncle Rocco who had come up with the idea, not himself.
‘Anyway, enough of all that. First things first. I must get on to Jacques and see if he has any ideas about tracking down the girl. I must let him have a copy of that photograph you took.’
‘Is it that important?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged as he picked up the phone. ‘Who knows? Two things bother me. One is I don’t know the answer to your question. Secondly, someone in the organisation is either a dab hand at second-guessing, or they have a very thorough knowledge of the inner workings of Le Guide, including matters that wouldn’t or shouldn’t normally concern them. Also, I wish I knew what it is that Pommes Frites knows and I don’t.’
He broke off the moment he was put through.
‘Jacques!’
‘Oui. C’est moi …’
‘Oui. I am in need of a bit of help … it won’t take long …’
Putting two and two together and making rather more than four, Doucette wandered off for the time being. Aristide’s last remark had set her thinking, and as she had foreseen, she had plenty of time on her hands to develop an idea that had entered her mind.
‘I thought you implied women hogged the telephone more than men,’ she said, when he terminated the call at long last.
‘That was different,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We had important matters to discuss.’
‘Ah!’ said Doucette. ‘Of course. I was forgetting. Women don’t, of course. Vive la différence!
‘In the meantime, I haven’t exactly been idle. I have been wondering about Pommes Frites’ strange behaviour with the girl’s telephone. You know that mobile you gave me for my birthday …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse could have said that the reason for his gift had simply been that whenever his mobile was on charge and he wanted to make an important call their main telephone line always seemed to be in use, but he chose the easy way out and simply said ‘yes’.