Monsieur Pamplemousse Rests His Case

by Michael Bond

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave up writing at that point. He’d had more than enough.

  Repeating Ellis’s last words produced a loud guffaw at the other end of the line; the first in what had otherwise been a one-sided, not to say sombre conversation. It was quite a plus. The person at the other end didn’t sound as though he was normally a bundle of laughs.

  Ellis would have done better to have called out for some dicobalt edetate instead of Bâtard Montrachet and fish.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked the man for his trouble, then replaced the receiver and sat for a while lost in thought.

  At long last he picked up the phone again and made a telephone call to England. He was in the middle of a long conversation when he heard a knock.

  ‘Can you call me back?

  ‘Oui. As soon as possible …

  ‘Yesterday would be even better!

  ‘Au revoir.

  Opening the door, he found Mrs Van Dorman standing outside. She was doing a balancing act with his working case and the encyclopaedias. Perched precariously on top of it all, looking as though it was about to slide off at any moment, was Norm Ellis’s tasting glass. He grabbed it in the nick of time.

  ‘Sorry if I’ve been a long time.’ She sounded out of breath.

  ‘You had a problem?’

  ‘You can say that again. I managed to get the key to the room next to yours, and I didn’t have too much trouble with the lock on the connecting door. It was the door itself. It must have been a tight fit to start with, and sometime or other it had gotten itself painted over while it was still shut. It took for ever to get it open.

  ‘Then, when I came out the policeman on duty insisted on carrying everything to the elevator for me. To make matters worse, when it arrived there was someone in there already. I had to go all the way down to the ground floor and bring as much as I could carry in one go up the back stairs. If the desk clerk saw the encyclopaedias he must wonder what’s going on. I thought I’d bring the lot just in case.’

  While Mrs Van Dorman was talking Monsieur Pamplemousse opened his case and spread the books out across the table.

  ‘Can you manage the rest of the things?’

  ‘I’ve packed everything in the one bag. One bag! Some people believe in travelling light! How do you manage it?’

  ‘When you spend much of your life on the road,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘you learn not to waste energy carrying around things you don’t need.’

  ‘Touché!’

  By the time Mrs Van Dorman returned with his valise Monsieur Pamplemousse was deep into the encyclopaedias. He could have done with Alexandre Dumas’ assistant. According to one entry Auguste Macquet had been ‘a tireless searcher out of historical documents’ on behalf of his master. On the other hand, Auguste Macquet could doubtless have answered the question that was at the back of his mind without resorting to an encyclopaedia.

  ‘I told them I’d decided not to take the other room after all. Who needs a view?’

  Mrs Van Dorman laid his clothes out on the bed and then began hanging them up for him alongside her own as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘Do you really think someone poisoned Norm?’ she asked as she draped his jacket over the back of the chair.

  ‘I think there is nothing more certain.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If you mean “why do I think it?” – let us just say it is the ex-policeman in me. Instinct tells me I am right. If you mean “why did they do it?” that is something only the person concerned can answer.

  ‘Either way, something must be done. There is always the possibility that a person who kills once will kill again given sufficient reason. I think it nearly happened again last night.’

  ‘You mean the wine?’ Mrs Van Dorman gave a shiver. ‘If you’re right, then it must have been the same person who broke into my room. In which case, he could try again.’

  ‘I think there is nothing more certain.’

  ‘That gives me goose bumps.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked up from a list he’d been compiling. ‘I don’t think you should spend another night on your own anyway.’

  If Mrs Van Dorman read anything into the remark she showed no sign.

  ‘But how did he get at Norm?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse handed her his list. ‘If you manage to find all these things for me, perhaps I can answer that question too.’

  Mrs Van Dorman read the list carefully.

  ‘Are you OK? Do you need a doctor?’

  ‘I am Al, thank you.’

  ‘Then why do you need a thermometer?’

  ‘I have it in mind to test the temperature of the water in the Parc des Sources.’

  ‘If you want a walk – fine. But if you really want to know how warm it is I can save you the trouble.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at her enquiringly.

  ‘It’s all in the hand-out.’ Mrs Van Dorman crossed to the dressing table and opened a large plastic pack in the shape of a briefcase.

  She took out a folder and flipped through the pages. ‘Here we are. Célestin comes out at 21 degrees centigrade. In the Source du Parc you have a choice … anything from 27 degrees centigrade to 42.5 degrees.’ Unfolding the centre pages she spread it out across the table. ‘There’s a map showing exactly where they are. The Parc de Célestin is down near where we were the other evening …’

  ‘May I see that?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse took the map from her and studied it intently for a moment or two. The notion that had been nagging at him in the bath had surfaced again.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ Mrs Van Dorman broke into his thoughts.

  ‘You must have a good travel agent,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse vaguely. ‘They seem to have thought of everything.’

  ‘Call it American efficiency. It came along with the tickets, an itinerary, and a spare roll of film – compliments of the management.’

  ‘It must have been an expensive operation.’

  ‘More so than average, I guess, but not as bad as it sounds. I gather they’ve accumulated a lot in the kitty over the past few years. They all chip in with a fixed amount each spring. Besides, they’ve managed to save quite a lot on the last few trips. When they went to Japan they were guests of some writers’ society or other and in return for a mention or two all their expenses were paid for by one of the big electronic companies. Spencer’s ill-fated “last breakfast” saved them a bundle; that was eating out on the cheap with a vengeance. This year they were going to the conference at Annecy anyway and I daresay a lot of it goes down on expenses.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had a sudden thought. ‘How about the tasting glasses? Did they come with the other things?’

  Mrs Van Dorman hesitated. ‘I guess they must have done. They’re the kind of firm that thinks of everything.’

  She looked at the list again. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else? I mean, while I’m out you wouldn’t like me to get you a kitchen sink? What’s a quincaillerie when it’s at home?’

  ‘A quincaillerie,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is like your travel agent – it is the kind of shop where they have everything. They will help cut the glass for you, and if they can’t do it themselves they will know where you should go.’

  ‘I’ve just learnt something fundamental,’ said Mrs Van Dorman. ‘Sarcasm doesn’t cross language barriers.’

  ‘Comment?’

  ‘Forget it. Seriously – is there anything else you need?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter for a moment or two.

  ‘If you come across a good bookshop you might see if you can find any books by our friends down the road.’ It was a long shot, but it might tell him something. ‘Get as many as possible. And don’t forget to ask for une fiche.’ Madame Grante probably wouldn’t wear it, but there was no harm in getting a receipt – just in case.

  ‘You can take Pommes Frites with you, if you like. He could do with the walk. Only make sure y
ou go down the back stairs in case the guard sees you both and puts two and two together.’

  ‘Thanks a heap!’ Mrs Van Dorman paused at the door and looked at Pommes Frites. ‘Pardonnez-moi. I didn’t mean it. It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to. One last question. Why do you need sugar?’

  ‘Let’s just say I have a sweet tooth.’ Taking the Cross pen from his jacket pocket, Monsieur Pamplemousse twisted the barrel. It was a good ‘thinking’ pen. He always felt lost without it. ‘Talking of which, on the way out could you order me a sandwich and a bottle of wine? I will leave the choice to you.’

  ‘You know something, Aristide,’ said Mrs Van Dorman thoughtfully. ‘Given time, you could be really infuriating.’

  As the door closed behind her, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the map again and studied it carefully, a slight frown on his face. Turning the pages of the guide until he came to what he wanted, he took a clean sheet of paper from his case and started to write.

  The telephone rang once. It was his call from England.

  A room-maid arrived with a bottle of Côtes du Rhône and a ham sandwich. While he was eating the sandwich Monsieur Pamplemousse telephoned the Bibliothèque Municipale and had a brief but satisfactory conversation with the head librarian.

  He had barely replaced the receiver when Mrs Van Dorman and Pommes Frites arrived back. Pommes Frites looked suitably refreshed and Mrs Van Dorman was obviously feeling very pleased with herself.

  ‘You look as though you have just discovered the wheel.’

  She put her shopping down on the bed. ‘I feel like I have. Do you want to know something crazy?’

  Listening with only half an ear, Monsieur Pamplemousse went through the contents of the bags. He toyed with the idea of telling her his own news, then thought better of it. ‘You have done well.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me what’s happened?’

  ‘Pardon.’ He gave her his undivided attention. ‘Tell me, what has happened?’

  ‘I’ve solved a mystery. You’re not going to believe this.’

  ‘Try me and see.’

  ‘Well, I bumped into Paul Robard while I was out and we got talking. You remember all the hoo-ha over dinner when Spencer Troon pretended he’d been poisoned. The cracks he made about having everyone fooled and how it made him runner-up …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded.

  ‘Apparently it all had to do with a wager they’d made with each other while they were in Annecy. The first one to come up with a plot for the perfect murder got the jackpot. The catch was that whoever won it had to convince the rest that his idea would work. When Norm died everyone assumed at first it was as a result of a heart attack. Then, as time went on, they began to wonder if maybe he was trying out an idea and it had gone horribly wrong. Either way, no one felt like going into deep mourning and it was tacitly assumed by all but Spencer that the bet was off.’

  ‘Do you know whose idea it was in the first place?’

  ‘I asked that, but Paul’s not sure – he says he thinks it just kind of happened. Harvey swears it was Norm himself, which would be rough justice. Harman reckoned he was bugged because they were all getting at him for pinching their material over the years. Apparently he’d actually had the gall to get up at the conference and deliver a speech on how he thought up his plots. He even gave a for instance of one he’d worked out which involved suspending a block of dry ice above someone while they were asleep. The idea being that the vapour would flow down and displace the surrounding air so that the victim would be deprived of oxygen and suffocate in his sleep.’

  ‘I’m sure it happens all the time,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily. It sounded like the plot for a book.

  ‘You can’t prove it doesn’t,’ said Mrs Van Dorman.

  He didn’t feel inclined to argue. What was the figure for undetected murders? Years ago he’d read a quote from an American survey. It had been something like ten to one – and that didn’t include deaths classed as accidents or suicides. If you pushed someone off the edge of a cliff when no one was watching who was to say it was murder?

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Mrs Van Dorman, ‘it was the start of an argument afterwards because Harvey swore he’d read the same idea in a book and accused Norm of plagiarism. That was more or less how it all began.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse turned the information over in his mind for a moment or two.

  ‘What time are the others leaving?’

  ‘They’re booked for New York on the last flight out of Paris. The Air-Inter connecting flight leaves Clerment-Ferrand for Orly at 17.55. I’m catching the same one tomorrow.’

  ‘So they leave here at what time?’

  ‘The car picks them up at a quarter past four.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch again. Fourteen-fifteen. Two hours to go.

  ‘Will you do one more thing for me? I’m afraid it will mean going out again.’

  ‘It beats jogging,’ said Mrs Van Dorman. ‘I haven’t had so much exercise in years.’

  ‘I think the time has come when we should put out some bait,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I think before the others leave you should go to their hotel and wish them bon voyage.’

  ‘I planned to do that anyway. Apart from Paul, I haven’t seen them since the dinner.’

  ‘Good. In that case, while you are there perhaps you would be kind enough to give them my felicitations and apologise for the fact that I cannot be with them in person. Tell them I am busy; that something has come up over the death of Ellis. Say I have made an important discovery and I am writing out a report in my capacity as an ex-member of the Paris Sûreté. At the same time you can let slip the fact that I am working alone here in your room and do not wish to be disturbed.’

  ‘Putting it out for the cat and seeing who comes to lick it up?’

  ‘Something like that.’ He must try and remember the phrase to add to the Director’s collection. ‘I suggest you take Pommes Frites with you again. He will make sure no harm comes to you.’

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘I shall be all right. It is better that I am seen to be entirely on my own.’ It also occurred to him that it was probably better if Mrs Van Dorman wasn’t.

  As they left the room Monsieur Pamplemousse caught Pommes Frites’ eye. Pommes Frites was endowed with extra-sensory perception when it came to summing up situations, and he was wearing his enigmatic expression. It would have been nice at that moment to know what he was really thinking.

  The knock on the door came even sooner than he had expected. It was followed by the sound of someone trying the handle. Purposely leaving his papers spread out across the table, Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed to the door and opened it.

  ‘Entrez.’ He stood to one side, allowing room for his visitor to squeeze past. ‘Comment ça va?’

  ‘I’m OK. I hope I’m not disturbing you. DiAnn said I might find you here.’

  ‘Please take a seat.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse motioned towards a chair.

  ‘I won’t stop, thank you. I have a plane to catch. I really only dropped by to say au revoir and to ask if you enjoyed the other evening.’

  ‘I could hardly fail to have done. As a meal it was an exercise in sheer gluttony, but there …’

  ‘I’ve heard tell the Romans had a similar dish – the Trojan roast pig. They stuffed it with fig-pickers, thrushes and oysters. In the end their Senate banned it on the grounds that it was too extravagant.’

  ‘In that case, I am even more privileged than I thought.’

  ‘You’ve read Alexandre Dumas’ original recipe for Rôtie à l’Impératrice?’

  ‘I am working my way through Le Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine. I dip into it when I go to bed at night, but in a very random fashion.’

  ‘Well, I guess it’s a bit like the house that Jack built. The chef starts off with an olive from which he first removes the stone, replacing it with an anchovy. The olive is then placed inside a lark, the lark inside a quail,
the quail goes into a partridge and the partridge into a pheasant. The pheasant then goes inside a turkey, which is finally placed inside a suckling pig.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse listened patiently. He could hardly do otherwise. But he was beginning to wonder where the conversation was leading. ‘It was a triumph for the Rôtisseur. To have cooked such a combination to perfection cannot have been easy.’

  ‘You know what Dumas said about the dish?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The true gourmet discards the meat. He eats only the olive and the anchovy.’

  ‘It sounds remarkably like yet another of Monsieur Dumas’ extravagant statements,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Sadly, like many of his pronouncements we shall never know the truth.’

  ‘On the contrary. After you and DiAnn left the other night the rest of us paid a visit to the kitchen and managed to rescue the olive from under the very noses of the staff before it disappeared along with the rest of the remains.

  ‘And now, at DiAnn’s request, and out of respect for a true gourmet, that is what I have brought you …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself being handed a small jar ‘… a present from us all before we return home.’

  Unscrewing the cap, he put his nose to the opening. Shrivelled though the olive was from the cooking, the smell was redolent with all that had gone into the Rôti à l’Impératrice; the rich juices from the pork combined with the ripeness of a pheasant which must have been hung until the feathers practically fell from its breast – it was a wonder the bird had held together when they stuffed it inside the turkey – and that in turn mingled with the smell of partridge, quail and lark. Above it all there was the unmistakable pungent odour of anchovy.

  ‘It is most kind of you. A very great honour. But I cannot be the only one to benefit. I insist that you share it with me.’

  ‘In no way. It’s for you. Besides, there’s hardly enough to share.’