Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web

by Michael Bond

  ‘Well,’ said Doucette. ‘I have had an idea. I didn’t realise I can switch it to what they call vibratory ringing.’

  ‘It had all the optional extras,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I made sure of that.’

  ‘You are very kind, Aristide,’ said Doucette. ‘Well, I had no idea it was possible and I have never had need of the facility until now. I was thinking about Pommes Frites and according to the book of instructions it is specifically aimed at users of importance who wish to avoid disturbing others when they are attending board meetings and need to be contacted urgently, but discreetly …’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with Pommes Frites anyway,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He wouldn’t know a board meeting if he saw one, and he would be bored stiff.’

  Doucette reached into her handbag. ‘No, but it might be interesting to see how he reacts when this one goes off. Why don’t we give it a try and see what happens? You can give me a ring on our main phone while it’s free, Aristide. It won’t take a moment.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the phone and prepared to dial. ‘What’s your number?’

  Doucette reached into her handbag again. ‘I have it somewhere.’

  It took a little while before she found it, but when Monsieur Pamplemousse eventually dialled the right number, albeit through slightly gritted teeth, he could hardly complain. The result was electrifying.

  Not much happened on the middle slopes of Montmartre during the winter months so outwardly there was nothing to suggest that Pommes Frites was on the qui vive. However, the moment Doucette’s mobile began to vibrate his ears shot up, and from a standing start near the window of their apartment, where he had been taking his ease hopefully watching out for what little there was in the way of passing interest in the world outside, to his arrival at her mobile would undoubtedly have broken all records, had there been any in the international edition of the Guiness Book of Records to break.

  It was an emotional moment as he pivoted on the spot and without a second’s hesitation set off down the passage of the Pamplemousses’ apartment with the phone in his mouth and scarcely more than a fleeting parting glance.

  A keen student of history might have detected an air of finality from the look on his face, akin to that which must have been on the faces of some of those taking part in the Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava in 1854, or for that matter, Colonel Custer’s last stand against the Sioux Indians at Little Bighorn, Montana, in 1876.

  The signal was clear. It said quite simply: ‘This is it, lads. Make the most of it. You may never see the like again.’

  However, Doucette and Aristide were too taken aback by the speed at which everything had taken place to have registered any such fancy nuances.

  ‘At least we shall be spared the usual ending,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Doucette was about to voice her agreement when they heard a loud splash.

  ‘Did you leave the cabinet door open again, Aristide?’ she said accusingly.

  ‘It is, to all intents and purposes, a communal toilet,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Pommes Frites is my dog, and he lives here.’

  ‘I don’t think that gives him the right to use it as a depository for other people’s telephones,’ said Doucette.

  ‘At least it won’t disappear for good,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Don’t you be so sure,’ said Doucette. ‘You are always saying he watches points. I wouldn’t be surprised if he discovered how to flush it given the mood he’s in. Besides, it is my birthday present.’

  ‘And it was your idea in the first place,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You were only too keen to try it out.’

  ‘I didn’t expect it to go straight down the pan,’ said Doucette. ‘But you are absolutely right, Aristide – as ever. You win on points.’

  ‘You won’t believe this,’ she said on her return, holding the mobile aloft. ‘It’s still working.’

  ‘I told you I paid extra for the deluxe model,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The man promised me it was waterproof.’

  ‘What it is to have second sight,’ said Doucette. ‘But hadn’t you better ring off in case you are blocking the line to incoming calls?’

  Doing as he was bidden, Monsieur Pamplemousse was rewarded with an instant outside call.

  ‘At last!’ said Jacques. ‘I thought you were never going to answer. Problems?’

  ‘Don’t even ask,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Just thought you might like to know,’ said Jacques. ‘I did as you suggested. I had one of my men put your staff list through the computer and Immigration have a query regarding one of your employees. They wouldn’t say who because of some regulation or other, but it seems someone has two passports. French plus another and there is a discrepancy of some kind.’

  ‘And the other one?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse

  ‘The UK.’

  ‘How come? Any ideas?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Jacques. ‘You know as much about these things as I do. Apparently the Immigration people were pretty tight-lipped about it. You know what they’re like. But there are ways and means of having more than one passport.’

  ‘Legally?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Birth … adoption … marriage. Although that’s more tricky nowadays, particularly when it comes to the UK. The days of a registry office marriage followed by a quickie divorce three days later no longer wash …’

  ‘Forgery?’

  ‘That’s a dangerous route, given the latest scanners they have, and getting more so all the time. It’s no longer worth the risk.

  ‘I’ll get someone to work on it if you like, but if I were you I’d put in a call to your English friend … the shadowy one who comes and goes. Monsieur …’

  ‘Pickering?’

  ‘That’s the one. Used to be in British intelligence. A nice guy, even if he does play his cards close to his chest, at times. A bit like our Customs and Excise, but kosher with it.

  ‘Anyway, my problem is I’ve been pulled off doing any moonlighting for the time being. So I thought I’d better call you while I have the chance. Funny thing. I’m back to where we came in … practically the same spot as last time …’ He lowered his voice and Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his blood run cold, all thought of what had gone before momentarily wiped from his mind at Jacques’ next words.

  He cupped both hands over the mouthpiece to shield them from Doucette.

  ‘What’s the matter, Aristide?’ asked Doucette when he eventually hung up.

  ‘Someone has found a hat floating in the canal St Martin,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘It happens,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And they are following it up. They are searching the canal just in case it means the worst.’

  For Doucette’s peace of mind he didn’t add the hat was red and had clearly belonged to a female. As soon as he mentioned their visitor to Jacques he asked if Doucette would mind having a quick look at it. In his words: ‘It’s probably a million-to-one chance, but you have to start somewhere …’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Eureka!’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse nearly fell out of bed with excitement, and for a second or two was unsure as to whether his sudden awakening from a deep slumber had been the result of a particularly vivid dream, or what he’d come to recognise as the early morning departure of a giant Airbus 380 plane taking off from Charles de Gaulle airport and heading over northern Paris.

  It didn’t matter which of them was the culprit, although if pressed he would have opted for the former, because it would mean that his subconscious had come to the rescue yet again.

  During his time with the Sûreté some of his most spectacular cases had been solved by allowing his subconscious to do the spadework for him while he was asleep, and it had rarely let him down.

  Not that the current problem had anything to do with a major crime as yet, touch wood, but it
had been exercising his mind over the past few days, so he added a ‘Sapristi!’ at the top of his voice for good measure.

  Conscious of a stirring by his side, he took a firm grip of himself.

  ‘Are you all right, Aristide?’ asked Doucette. ‘I thought I heard you call out.’

  ‘I think I may have solved it,’ he replied. ‘I can see it all now. I couldn’t at the time … that was part of the problem. What I took to be an imitation red vein must have been a very fine insulated wire.’

  ‘You are talking a lot of charabia, Aristide,’ said Doucette sleepily. ‘Why don’t you come back to bed?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the bedside light.

  ‘It’s as clear as the nose on your face, Couscous,’ he said. ‘Clearer, in fact.’

  ‘Leave my nose out of it,’ said Doucette. ‘It isn’t five o’clock yet and it probably needs powdering.’

  ‘Point one.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse consulted his mental notebook. ‘Pommes Frites has been behaving strangely ever since he dropped that fake truffle into the Director’s waste bucket, and no wonder.

  ‘Ask yourself, Doucette, what do a truffle and a mobile phone have in common with each other?’

  ‘Nothing as far as I can see,’ said Doucette. ‘Still less when it’s two mobile phones, especially if they’re the kind that vibrates when someone makes a call. They vibrate and the truffle doesn’t.’

  ‘Exactement!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, triumphantly.

  ‘Don’t say you’ve woken me up just to tell me that!’ exclaimed Doucette.

  ‘But, don’t you see? What was common to both the mobile phones and the truffle must have been the vibration. Have you ever come across a truffle that vibrated?’

  ‘Not that I have ever noticed,’ said Doucette. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Dropping the vibrating mobiles into the waste buckets must have been Pommes Frites’ way of drawing attention to the fact that this particular fake truffle did,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Most likely it wasn’t strong enough to register with the average human being, but it was sufficient for a dog to wonder what was going on when he had it in his mouth. Since when he must have been racking his brains wondering how on earth he could communicate that simple fact to us all, and to me in particular. Trust him to find a way in the end, even if it did mean having several goes and leaving a trail of unhappy people as a result.

  ‘We live in an age of miniaturisation, and my guess would be that it could have been some kind of state-of-the-art micro recording mechanism; most likely voice operated in order to conserve energy when it wasn’t required …’

  Doucette sat up in bed, suddenly all attention. ‘You mean batteries! What a mercy he didn’t swallow the whole thing in his excitement. Think of all that acid entering his system.’

  But Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind was racing ahead. He was thinking about where the truffle had been all this time, and there was no getting away from the fact that it must have been in the Director’s office when Monsieur Leclercq and Véronique were going through the final review of the entries to next year’s guide.

  Somebody, somewhere, must have a complete copy of the whole conversation.

  ‘Merde!’ There was no other word for it and despite the hour, once again he couldn’t avoid expressing his feelings out loud.

  Several loud thumps came from the apartment directly overhead.

  Doucette buried her head under the duvet and Pommes Frites came running.

  Although he was only too conscious of the fact that the technical ramifications of his brainwave must be beyond Pommes Frites’ brain cells to grasp in their entirety, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to plan his next move while at the same time devoting a sizeable amount of time congratulating his ever-faithful friend and mentor on his prowess at getting the all-important message across in such a stylish manner.

  In the old days it would have merited a star on his annual report.

  He glanced at the bedside clock. It would be another four hours or so before the office opened, and if the truth be known he was beginning to feel the weight of his responsibility as the temporary Head of Security. Monsieur Leclercq would be expecting to see some return for his gesture of faith, and rightly so.

  High on the agenda had to be locating the truffle in order to establish whether or not his theory was correct. If it were, then having served its purpose the works inside it would most likely have been removed, or at the very least, the part containing the vital information, in whatever form it took, would have been recovered. Either way it would be one step nearer finding who was behind it all.

  Failing that, the obvious course would be to delay publication for an unspecified length of time. The Director would need a lot of persuading to do that. Such a thing had never happened before.

  However, a decision on any kind of move would have to wait until later in the morning.

  In the meantime going back to bed would be a waste of time. He was too wide awake for that. That said, doing nothing wasn’t an option either. Ergo, somehow or other he had to find a worthwhile means of occupying his time while he thought the matter through.

  Tidying up a few loose ends perhaps? There was Doucette’s worry about the regular appearances of the man with the dog for a start. It would be good to know exactly where he came from. It had to be somewhere nearby, although he didn’t sound like a local inhabitant. Given the time of year, he was unlikely to be a holidaymaker.

  On the other hand it was equally unlikely that his presence had anything to do with Le Guide.

  Setting someone on his trail wasn’t on the cards now Jacques was tied up, and he didn’t have the time to do it himself. Given that man and dog seemed inseparable, perhaps the easy way out would be to put a tag on the dog.

  Gathering up his clothing where he had left it before retiring for the night, and having signalled Pommes Frites to follow on behind as quietly as possible, he turned out the light and led the way into the living room.

  While he was getting dressed he pondered what Mr Pickering would have to say when he heard the news, or for that matter what he would have to say to Mr Pickering.

  There was one matter in the back of his mind which had been bothering him more and more as time went by, but it was an instinctive feeling rather than something concrete he could put into words.

  Making for his den, and going back on some of his earlier remarks about emails, he first of all sent a message to Mr Pickering warning him that he needed help; then he searched through the top drawer of his desk until he found a small envelope.

  Inside it was a relatively tiny item which was an essential part of one of the many small gifts presented to him when he and Pommes Frites both took early retirement from the Sûreté. Paradoxically it had been given to him by a well-wisher in case the latter had ever shown signs of wanting to go his own way. Perish the thought!

  Slipping the envelope into a jacket pocket for the time being, he headed for the kitchen, and having first made sure the door was firmly closed behind them, located the biscuit tin and emptied most of the contents into a bowl, before turning his attention to a food processor.

  Pommes Frites licked his lips, clearly hoping it was yet another reward.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘this isn’t for you, mon ami. You will have to wait until it’s your turn.’

  He wondered what the Director would have to say if he could see him now.

  Underneath his often disarmingly bluff exterior there dwelt a shrewd businessman. Le Guide was a large organisation, unique in employing an army of specialists in many different levels. A self-sufficient world in itself, it was comparable to an ocean liner, and in that respect Monsieur Leclercq could lay claim to running a ‘tight ship’.

  Not simply a ‘tight ship’, but a happy one, and in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s experience that was something which wasn’t so much to do with the boss’s physical presence, but something more mysterious which began at the top and worked its way down thro
ugh the company, permeating everything and everybody as it went in what was really a process of osmosis.

  It was a rare gift; one that was infinitely worth protecting and it strengthened his own desire to make sure it remained intact while he had anything to do with it.

  Having ground the biscuits to a fine sandy consistency, he mixed in an equal quantity of plain flour. Then he opened a jar marked SUCRE and added four or five tablespoonfuls of its yellowish, but equally powdery contents.

  Following that with a generous slab of butter and some milk from a bottle, he gave the whole another whirl with the mixer until it began showing signs of forming a dough. At which point he hastily switched off the Magimix and transferred the contents onto a breadboard.

  It had been guesswork so far, and mercifully Doucette seemed to have slept through it all, but feeling more than pleased with his handiwork, he turned the oven on and relaxed for a moment or two while he gave Pommes Frites the remains of the biscuits.

  Another thing about Monsieur Leclercq. He wasn’t simply a figurehead who had never got his hands dirty, as one might suppose listening to him at times. He had started out as a junior inspector and a very able and conscientious one at that by all accounts. The founder of Le Guide, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, would never have handed over the reins when he retired had it been otherwise, and his faith had not been misplaced.

  It was all before his own time, of course, but once in the saddle Monsieur Leclercq had also revealed an uncanny aptitude when it came to engaging new staff. It was one of the main reasons why under his guidance Le Guide had gone from strength to strength over the years.

  Which made it all the more surprising that he had employed Barnaud almost on sight as it were. And entrusted him with a highly responsible job into the bargain. Perhaps his eagerness to get going with the new app had clouded his judgement and he was anxious to leave no stone unturned.

  The press office had already gone to town on the subject of the apps. Teasers had been appearing in the press. There was no going back.

  Barnaud was certainly a smooth talker, but over and above that, it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that there was something about him which didn’t ring true.