Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web

by Michael Bond

  ‘I don’t doubt for one moment that had Monsieur Leclercq tried to ring back, perhaps to thank them for all the trouble they had gone to, he would have found the number didn’t exist. The people involved were most likely all in the same room. Barnard and his associates are past masters at the art of make-believe and they carry others along with them.

  ‘The big scam currently taking place over here is credit-card theft over the phone. Usually it takes place in the evening when the banks are closed and it takes the form of a cold call from someone purporting to be an employee of a credit-card security firm who tells the victim their bank account has been compromised.

  ‘First of all he asks if they used their card recently to withdraw cash from a machine, quoting an unusually large sum of money from a bank in an out-of-the-way area at an unlikely time of night.

  ‘Naturally the victim denies having done any such thing. At the same time their heart most likely misses a beat which is a plus point for the caller.

  ‘The voice then says that in order to establish their caller’s credentials the victim should hang up and call an official number, for example the one on the back of their credit card. All very reassuring at a time when reassurance is most needed.

  ‘However, unknown to the victim, the line has been kept open and their call goes straight back to the original caller who pretends he is a member of the bank staff, much as happened with your Director when he thought he was talking to the professor at a technical college.

  ‘At which point the voice at the other end, having expressed his sympathy, says they must move swiftly to put a stop on the victim’s card, along with any others they may possess and, since he has direct lines to the various banks, given the relevant details, he will gladly save valuable time by doing it for them there and then. He will, of course, need to check the PIN number to make sure there are no mistakes.

  ‘Leaving a colleague to offer a few more words of sympathy he returns after a suitable gap with the news that all the cards named have had a stop put on them, so they might just as well be thrown in the dustbin.

  ‘Except – as he is about to say goodnight, a sudden thought strikes him. It is just possible they might be able to retrieve some valuable information off the black band on the back of the cards. It would be very helpful if they could be put into an envelope for safekeeping. Meanwhile he will arrange for a courier to pick them up.

  ‘By the time the victims wake up the next morning copies will have been made and put to use in as many cashpoints as possible.’

  ‘And people fall for that kind of thing?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘That’s easily said,’ replied Mr Pickering. ‘But don’t forget that in a different context your Director was taken in by a phone call.

  ‘In the cold light of day a lot of the people who have been victims of similar scams must wonder how on earth it happened, but it is carried out with such panache and air of authority it’s all too easy to go along with it. The world is their oyster.

  ‘Scams aren’t confined to the hoi polloi. Take the man who set up a company called Global Technical Ltd, and made millions selling little black boxes with an aerial sticking out the side. Labelled GT200, he claimed it was a bomb-disposal device, and people who should have known better queued up in countries all over the world to buy it.

  ‘All very rich considering he must have got the idea from a Mr McCormick who based his earlier model on a novelty lost-golf-ball finder, and is now serving ten years in gaol. These people never give up.

  ‘Listen, Aristide, if you are waiting to see a specialist in a hospital and someone wearing a nurse’s uniform pops their head round the door saying “would you please take off all your clothes and put them in this bag, then stand on the scales until you are called”, what do you do?’

  ‘Until a moment or so ago I would have stripped off,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Now. I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Very wise,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘There is always the possibility you might never see your clothes again and half an hour later you would be feeling an idiot, shivering, and calling for help.

  ‘Anyway, getting back to Barnard, to use his English name, it seems that having been linked with the credit-card scam, he disappeared off the radar screen some weeks ago and, always presuming my information that Barnard and Barnaud are one and the same person is correct, he and his associates are now at large somewhere in France.

  ‘He must have another trick up his sleeve, and we all know where that might be, even if we don’t know what or when.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked him. The leap from fashioning dog bones to the rather more sophisticated world of credit-card scams wasn’t exactly of quantum proportions, but it did take a lot of assimilating in one go.

  ‘Is that nice secretary of Monsieur Leclercq’s still with you?’ asked Mr Pickering. ‘The one who always puts me in mind of Miss Moneypenny in a James Bond film?’

  ‘Véronique? I’m not sure if she will thank you, but she is an essential part of the furniture and fittings,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He looked at his watch. ‘I doubt if she is in just yet. In the meantime I’m working from home.’ He went on to explain about his digression with the dog biscuit.

  ‘I do like a dog that combines business with pleasure,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘I suggest when she does arrive you get her to phone you immediately if anyone pays an unexpected visit to the Director without prior appointment. I have a feeling if anything is going to happen, it will happen soon. Once these people have set their sights on something there is no stopping them. Speed is of the essence, and whatever it is they have in mind there will be no going back.’

  ‘In the meantime I shall keep my credit cards under wraps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘I hope they will be the least of your worries,’ said Mr Pickering, staving off the wave of thanks that came over the line for his prompt response.

  ‘I would love to be with you, Aristide,’ was his gloomy response, ‘but I doubt if I shall make it in time.’

  As it happened, Véronique arrived much earlier than usual and she phoned him to report straight away. He wondered if he should warn her about his conversation with Mr Pickering and decided not to for the time being. He knew he could trust her, and too many details might be an unwanted distraction.

  He also knew from a conversation he’d had with her when he enquired if she had managed to take a photograph of Barnaud that the answer was ‘Yes’, and for reasons unstated she wished she hadn’t and she was glad to get rid of it.

  There was also the barest of possibilities that Pickering was mistaken in his prognosis. He put her slightly nervous tone down to pre-publication jitters, and with the unveiling of the new app scheduled for the morrow who wouldn’t be tense?

  ‘Is Barnaud in yet?’ he asked. He very nearly asked if Barnard was in!

  ‘He wasn’t answering his phone yesterday,’ said Véronique. ‘And there is a PASSAGE INTERDIT notice hanging outside the door of his room on the third floor. Madame Grante’s getting quite huffy about it. She’s taken against him.’

  She didn’t add ‘that makes two of us’. Instead, she broke into a passing good imitation of Le Guide’s Head of Accounts giving vent to her displeasure.

  ‘Nobody cares two hoots about disturbing me, nor ever has!’

  ‘I should save it for next year’s summer party,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘I don’t mind living dangerously,’ said Véronique. ‘But only up to a point. There is a limit to everything. There’s nothing like the real thing. Beware of imitations, I say!’

  ‘Beware of imitations!’ Quite literally, as he replaced the receiver those few words struck Monsieur Pamplemousse like a thunderbolt from out of the blue.

  He could have kicked himself. Beware of imitations! The likeness had been there all the time, staring him in the face. No wonder Madame Grante had taken against Barnaud. On the other side of the coin he was surprised the Director hadn’t noticed it, bu
t then he wasn’t the most observant of people.

  It was no wonder their latest recruit had never been without his dark glasses. Pickering may have been right about them from one point of view. They probably did serve a useful purpose from time to time. But seen from another angle the main purpose of wearing them must have been to hide behind. The sheer gall of it! Talk about entering the lion’s den with gay abandon!

  A quick call back to Mr Pickering confirmed his worst fears.

  The family row3 he had spoken of had taken place in Belfort, in the Franche-Comté, involving a young chef who, having inherited a two-Stock Pot restaurant from his father, had been caught attempting to pass off a chicken from the local supermarket as a poularde de Bresse.

  ‘In France, there being no greater crime in the catering world than the heinous offence of passing-off, the chef was immediately ostracised both by the general public and his fellow practitioners all over France, and ultimately he was sent to prison.

  ‘I won’t go into the repercussions. Suffice to say they were not pleasant. Naked revenge never is.’

  ‘You know who was responsible for catching him at it?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Mr Pickering had to confess he didn’t.

  ‘Monsieur Leclercq! It was his first tour of duty, and it was largely the way he handled the case and dug his heels in until the bitter end, despite nearly being knifed, that caused the founder of Le Guide to earmark him for bigger things.’

  ‘You think perhaps this a chance to kill two birds with one stone on behalf of his father?’ suggested Mr Pickering.

  ‘I have already told Doucette it feels like a case of history repeating itself,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Now I am sure of it.’

  ‘It is very apt to do so,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘There is nothing unusual in that. As the Irish author James Joyce once said: “History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.”’

  ‘Merci beaucoup,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘He did have a way with words,’ said Mr Pickering, by way of comfort.

  And so began what seemed at the time the longest day of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s career. The weather didn’t help. The sky was grey and the hills surrounding Paris were shrouded in mist. The forecast on the radio didn’t offer much in the way of hope for an early improvement.

  The one bright spot was when Jacques phoned to say he was now available if required: ‘Anything – it doesn’t matter what. Masonics, fêtes … rescuing maidens from burning buildings a speciality …’

  But even Jacques seemed to be affected by the elements, unusually subfusc was his way of putting it, and it was catching – everyone else in his section was the same. So the conversation was unusually short and sweet. Having jokingly asked for the offer in writing, Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to his window gazing.

  On a sunny spring day it was possible to see beyond the southern stretch of the Paris Périphérique and the stadium at the Porte de Châtillon, but today he could barely make out the top of the Eiffel Tower half the distance away.

  To say it matched his mood would have been putting it mildly. Even Pommes Frites closed his eyes in order to shut himself off from the world outside. One brief glance was sufficient.

  Doucette’s analogy with a spider’s web was nearer the truth than he’d realised, except the web had not attached itself to Le Guide by chance, but with malice aforethought. In all probability Barnaud had been involved with the original scam in the restaurant. It would figure. He wouldn’t put it past him. Although he had to admire his audacity in virtually manufacturing a job with Le Guide, the reality was a case of a little knowledge being a dangerous thing. He was certainly a quick learner, but he was also skating on very thin ice.

  Introducing a girl to play the part of Caterina, who could deliver and pick up the truffle when required and with no questions asked was pushing it a bit; although Monsieur Leclercq’s wife being away and nobody else as far he could make out knowing what she looked like would have seemed a stroke of luck.

  He must have hired a budding thespian looking for acting experience, who in the end got more than she had bargained for and went off in a panic.

  The news that the Director had arranged for someone who really did know Caterina to meet the train must have been a nasty moment, especially when the stand-in reported back to say Monsieur Leclercq insisted she was to stay with the Pamplemousses. It must have felt as though his whole world was collapsing about his ears.

  It was a wonder he hadn’t thrown the sponge in at that point.

  For all he knew there were others in the plot, but that was enough to occupy his thoughts for the time being.

  Véronique’s call came through a minute or so after 16.00. ‘He’s been and gone,’ she said. ‘He said he was a courier, but he didn’t look like one to me. Couriers don’t usually come dressed in a long black overcoat.

  ‘He had a dog with him, too. A little black one with a beard …’

  ‘And a tail that sticks straight up in the air?’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse, wondering what Doucette would say when she heard. ‘I told you so!’ in all probability.

  ‘Anything but, if you ask me,’ said Véronique. ‘Definitely at half mast. It was looking very sorry for itself.

  ‘Even at that, he had nothing on the Director. He looked shattered after they left. I think it has to do with a cheque … God knows how much it’s for …’

  ‘Put me through,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘He’s not taking any calls, I’m afraid,’ said Véronique.

  ‘Tell him it’s an emergency.’

  ‘Not from anyone,’ said Véronique. ‘And when Monsieur Leclercq says “no one” he means “no one”, not even you, Aristide. It’s as much as my job is worth.’

  ‘Well,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Here’s what I suggest you do. You walk into his office and you tell him I don’t care how much the cheque is for, or whom it is for, he must put a stop on it straight away. Furthermore, if he doesn’t, he will have lost his temporary Head of Security. End of conversation.’

  ‘May I tell you something?’ said Véronique. ‘I would much rather you do it for me.’

  ‘I would if I could,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But we have an emergency on our hands. I need to be elsewhere. There is something else I would like to know first of all. How did they arrive and how did they leave?’

  ‘I don’t know how they arrived,’ said Véronique. ‘Somebody must have let them in the back way. But according to old Rambaud on the gate, when they left they picked up an empty taxi which was heading down from the rank at the Place de Santiago-de-Chile. He thinks the dog was in a bit of a hurry. The way he scrambled into the back you would have thought there was no tomorrow. The man seemed to be having a bit of an argument with the driver.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse slammed the receiver back into its cradle and felt in his jacket pocket. There was no time to be lost.

  Having made sure the locator was still there, and following the briefest of farewells to Doucette, he was out of the building in less than three minutes. As he ran past Ciné 13 on the opposite corner, he paused to switch on the sensor and then headed off down the avenue Junot as fast as he could go with Pommes Frites hot on his heels.

  For the first fifty metres or so there wasn’t the slightest reaction from the sensor and he was about to give hope when, as they reached the long bend to the right and drew near the Villa Léandre he came to a sudden halt on hearing a stream of pips.

  In all the time he had lived in the area he had never really taken in the Villa Léandre. Short and sweet, it was like a picture-postcard with its rows of flower-draped porches and tiny front gardens. In the summer it must be a blaze of colour, but the first thing that caught his eye was the pavement to their right.

  Clearly, it was where the taxi had stopped in order to disgorge its passengers.

  And not a moment too soon by the look of it.

  He could picture the argument that must ha
ve gone on. Probably in any other avenue or street in Paris it would have brought the inhabitants running out of their homes, but the Villa Léandre looked serenely unruffled; as quiet as the cloisters in a nunnery.

  Signalling Pommes Frites to keep a watchful eye out, he made his way cautiously along the short length of the street; making mental notes as he went according to the strength of the signal given out by the sensor. As soon as it reached its peak outside one of the houses near the far end, he turned and beat a hasty retreat to the avenue Junot for fear of being spotted.

  As soon as they were back home he dialled Jacques’ emergency number and after as succinct a summing-up as possible issued his directions.

  ‘Call me when you get near the Cimetière St Vincent and I will direct you from then on,’ he said.

  There was an answering ‘D’accord’ from Jacques and the line went dead.

  It seemed an age, but in fact it was only a matter of minutes before he heard the sound of a siren in the distance, and shortly afterwards Jacques called back.

  ‘Turn off the rue Caulaincourt at the Place Constantin Pecqueur and turn right into the avenue Junot,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I suggest no sirens from now on. The road curves round anticlockwise in virtually a half circle. Near the end of the curve you will see several upmarket estate agents on your right. Their windows are full of pictures of properties to let. Just past the last one turn into the Villa Léandre. It’s very short and on the right near the far end is where I think you will find them. There is a trail of merde de chien on the trottoir …

  ‘No, it isn’t Pommes Frites’…

  ‘It’s the third dôme de caca on the right … you can’t miss it.’

  His words were lost momentarily as the vehicle skidded to a halt.

  ‘I said you can’t miss it,’ he repeated.

  ‘Do you want to bet?’ said Jacques. ‘The super has just trodden in it!’

  ‘Ask him if he could look out for a homing tag when he scrapes it clean,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It’s the only one I’ve got.’