by Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse
and the Militant Midwives
MICHAEL BOND
Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Read on for an extract from Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution
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About the Author
By Michael Bond
Copyright
Monsieur Pamplemousse
and the Militant Midwives
CHAPTER ONE
Riffling through a sheaf of papers, Monsieur Pamplemousse carefully set them down in front of him, studiously giving the button to his right a wide berth as instructed by the Funeral Director. Not only was it set in brass, but it was clearly marked NE PAS TOUCHER! in large red letters. There was no point in taking any chances, particularly on such a solemn occasion as the one that lay ahead.
Having arranged everything to his liking, he placed his right hand on his heart, held it there for a moment or two while the congregation settled, then grasped both sides of the lectern in a business-like manner.
In truth, it was a purely theatrical gesture, for he had rehearsed what he had to say not once, but many times over during the past few days. Notes were superfluous; a kind of a belt and braces safety measure in case of trouble, and one he hoped he wouldn’t have need to fall back on.
All the same, it served one useful purpose; it afforded the opportunity to get the feel of the assembly.
Par exemple: would some of the witticisms with which he had leavened his address while rehearsing it on the balcony outside his seventh floor Paris apartment sound apposite in the more down-to-earth precincts of a crematorium, or would they strike the wrong note, falling on ground every bit as stony as that on which the chapel itself had been built?
He recognised many of the faces in the packed chapel.
Even though the service was taking place some miles outside Paris, the city’s vice squad was there in force. That was only to be expected, of course; before moving on to higher things, Gaston Lefarge had been a leading light in the Brigade Mondaine. Like himself, a bit of a loner, for a while their careers had followed parallel paths. Both had been considered ‘loose cannons’, liable to buck the rule book from time to time in the pursuit of justice.
They had first met up during Monsieur Pamplemousse’s attachment to the food fraud squad: the then 200-strong section of the Paris police, whose task it was to search out run-of-the-mill farm chicken credited with having been born and brought up in Bresse and priced accordingly; scales with doctored weights; croissants made with margarine rather than butter; truffled foie gras containing Moroccan whites dyed black; there was no end to people’s ingenuity when it came to passing off. The Brigade had done for food what the Musée de Contrefaçion had done for labelling and other forms of deceit: brought them to the attention of the public.
But other sections of the Paris Sûreté, including the Brigade Criminale, were also well represented, and what was perhaps even more rewarding was the number of brass hats in attendance. It was a tribute to Gaston’s popularity.
The grounds outside had been packed with official cars when he arrived; the drivers either dozing at the wheel or standing around in small groups while they enjoyed a quiet smoke and a chat.
It was a catholic gathering and no mistake. At one point on the way in to the chapel he even thought he’d caught a glimpse of his boss’s erstwhile au pair, Elsie, although what possible reason she could have for being there, or indeed what interpretation Monsieur Leclercq would have placed on it, was beyond him.
He couldn’t help reflecting that had he known, Gaston wouldn’t have been entirely displeased at the turnout; very much the reverse in fact.
On the down side, word must surely have got around. Any member of the local criminal fraternity with half an eye on the main chance couldn’t help but be aware of what was taking place and would have lost no time in passing the information on to their colleagues in the capital. News travelled fast and in keeping with the times, coded emails would be flashing their way to the metropolis; mobiles working overtime relaying text messages. There must be many in the milieu who would be taking full advantage of the situation.
There were a number of faces Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t recognise. His erstwhile colleague had been born into a farming community and clearly a sizeable contingent of friends and relations had turned up to pay their last respects: ladies with their freshly coiffed hair held firmly in place beneath hats that probably only came out for funerals; the menfolk in their Sunday best, collars freshly starched, black ties knotted within an inch of the wearer’s life, leaving them red-faced and ill at ease.
They didn’t know how lucky they were. Compared with Paris it was relatively cool. The capital had been like an oven for the past few weeks. Lying as it did in a virtual basin, hot air trapped by the surrounding hills had covered the city like a heavy blanket, making breathing difficult. In consequence the death rate of people suffering from asthma or dehydration had risen sharply, particularly among the very old. Every day the papers published the latest figure; in total it had grown to several thousand.
Even so, despite being out of the city, his hands felt unusually clammy and his throat had gone dry. He wished now he’d arranged for a glass of water to be set within easy reach. Preferably one laced with some suitable restorative to give it a bit of body; a quarter bottle of gin perhaps, or some local eau de vie wouldn’t have gone amiss.
‘We are gathered here today,’ he began, ‘to pay our heartfelt respects to the late Chief Inspector Gaston Lefarge.
‘Gaston was a good man. One of the best. He was what one might in truth have called un bon oeuf.
‘A good egg,’ he added by way of explanation for the benefit of a small group of uniformed officers from across the channel. Occupying almost the entire third pew to his left, they added an international flavour to the proceedings.
Glancing up in order to bestow a friendly nod in their direction, he registered a lone figure in civilian dress. To his surprise it was an old friend, and he wondered what on earth he was doing there. National security involving the higher echelons of government, rather than vice, was more in Mr Pickering’s line. Although if he had been taxed on the point, Monsieur Pamplemousse would have had to admit there were times when the two became so inextricably mixed it was hard to tell them apart.
Typical, according to Mr Pickering, was the late King Edward VIII’s predilection for what was known in certain circles as ‘the Shanghai Grip’. His appetite once whetted, there had been no turning back; the course of history had been changed and over the years Mrs Simpson’s lifestyle had reaped the benefit accordingly.
Resisting the temptation to wave, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the thread again.
‘As a member of the Paris Sûreté, Gaston was unique. Not only was he totally incorruptible, he was as honest as the day is long, and that in an organisation where, if I may say so, and I speak as a past member, the days are sadly often all too short.’
Glancing up, he registered smiles of self-satisfaction from the UK contingent. Looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, they were nodding and preening themselves like a row of peacocks. Mr Pickering apart, les Anglais could be insufferably holier than thou when they chose.
Undeterred, Monsieur Pamplemousse continued. ‘Gaston’s powe
rs of interrogation were second to none. In his never-ending search for the truth he brought a new meaning to the phrase “throwing the book” at suspects.
‘The fact that more often than not it was a leather-bound edition of the A–M section of the Paris telephone directory is beside the point.’
Crossing himself lest some heavenly censor should be recording his address for future reference, he paused for a laugh and didn’t go unrewarded.
As the titters died away, he glanced round again and caught sight of several be-medalled bigwigs on the far side of the chapel. Meeting their stony gaze, it was clear they were registering disapproval rather than approbation. The combined furrowing of brows was reminiscent of the vast, freshly ploughed fields he and Pommes Frites had driven past on their way down that morning.
Reading between the lines the message was clear: thank your lucky stars, Pamplemousse, you are no longer in our employ. Further promotion would not be high on our combined agendas.
Had he worn contact lenses he would have followed the advice of another ex-colleague and removed them for the occasion.
Hastily excising a passing reference he had been about to make regarding the fact that the very first Paris Crime Squad had been formed by one Francois Vivacon, an ex-convict who went on to become its eventual head, he skipped a beat. All that had been in the days of Louis Philippe, the Citizen King. These things were interesting, but much water had flowed past the Palais de Justice and the quai des Orfèvres since then.
‘Not only was Gaston a colleague of many years’ standing,’ he continued, ‘but if I may strike a personal note, during that time he became a very dear friend to many, myself included, which is one of the reasons why I have the signal honour to be addressing you all today. That, and the strange course of events which took place only a few nights ago. I refer, of course, to the way in which he met his maker.
‘Chief Inspector Gaston Lefarge was a man in his prime, and to depart this world in such an unfortunate manner was indeed an unhappy turn of events. It was a shock to us all, and I know he will be sorely missed.
‘There must be many who, over the years, have perished in a blizzard while attempting to cross an Arctic ice floe on foot, or been swept down a mountainside in the Alps; victim of an unforeseen avalanche. Perhaps even plunging to their death in a cable car when the wire on which it travelled snapped, as such wires do from time to time.
‘But to have been submerged by a freak hailstorm in Paris on a summer’s day in a year which is on record as being the hottest for over fifty years, is the stuff of which works of fiction are made. The fact that it was several days before the ice melted only rubs salt into his wounds, many of which are on record as having been caused by stones larger than golf balls. Larger, and in Gaston’s case, twice as lethal.
‘That he was destined to be found by another ex-member of the Paris Sûreté while he was out for a walk one night with his master – I refer, of course, to my faithful hound, Pommes Frites, by great good fortune holder of the Pierre Armand trophy for being sniffer dog of his year – was yet another twist of fate; a twist so bizarre it almost beggars belief.
‘Truth, mes amis, is often stranger than fiction.’
Aware of a faint sob coming from nearby, he felt a pang of guilt as he caught sight of a figure in black only a few feet away from him. It was Denise, Lefarge’s wife, her red-rimmed eyes clearly visible from behind a token veil as she clung to his every word. Beside her were two teenage children, a boy and a girl; although given their mode of dress it was hard to distinguish which was which. He admired the way they were coping with everything. It must be a difficult time for all concerned.
Even to his ears the story sounded a bit thin, but having been out to dinner with Doucette on the night in question he could certainly vouch for the intensity of the storm while it lasted.
As for the heat … pâtissiers all over Paris had been struggling to maintain their dough at exactly the correct temperature, and despite constant watering, what little grass there was in the Parc Monceau now looked the colour of hay at harvest time. Girls had taken to flaunting bare midriffs with even greater abandon than usual, and despite picturing what his old mother would have had to say on the subject (Mark my words, they’ll suffer for it when they get to my age!), he couldn’t help but envy them.
It was partly because of the unremitting heat in their small kitchen on the slopes of Montmartre that he had decided to give his wife a treat and take her out to dinner that night. Given his work as an Inspector for Le Guide, France’s oldest and best-loved gastronomic bible, dining out was a bit of a busman’s holiday, which was why he had chosen to go further afield than usual; to the rue Surcouf in the 7th arrondissement and a little place he knew where they would be assured of a warm welcome. A welcome moreover, which would include Pommes Frites, if not from the resident cat, at least by Madame and her staff.
As always, it had been like entering a home from home. The familiar surroundings; the bar on the left just inside the door, the blue-and-white tiled floor, the tables with their spotlessly white linen coverings, the banquettes and the bent-wood chairs; the flowers and the familiar pictures on the wall, not to mention the little blackboard listing the day’s specials, and the brass plaque in one corner recording the fact that Inspector Maigret had once patronised the restaurant; an honour not given to many.
Sipping his Kir vin blanc, Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself wishing, as he so often had in the past, that all restaurants could be as welcoming. It would make his job that much easier. As for the food … it was the sort of cooking he remembered from his childhood.
They had just finished their first course – terrine de volaille maison – one of Madame’s specialties, and a favourite of Pommes Frites too (he was particularly partial to the gherkins accompanying it; they were sweeter than usual and made a very satisfactory cracking sound as he bit into them), when the phone rang.
From his end of the conversation Monsieur Pamplemousse gathered that someone else from the 18th arrondissement wanted to book a table for later that evening.
He agreed with Doucette when she wondered if it was anyone they knew. It was, in truth, a small world and all things were possible. It was also, as is so often the way, although he didn’t realise it at the time, the first of a series of coincidences that would multiply as the days went by.
Halfway through their ris de veau, and some way beyond the halfway mark on a bottle of Mazis-Chambertin, the phone went again. It was the same people who had rung only twenty minutes or so previously.
The waitress relayed the message through the open door to Madame in the kitchen. It seemed they were désolés, but they had to cancel their booking. They couldn’t get out of the front door to their apartment building let alone reach their car.
Doucette wondered why. Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a shrug as he replenished their glasses, murmuring that in his opinion it was more than likely something better had come up. It happened all the time in the restaurant business. But at least it wasn’t a ‘no show’. That was the worst crime of all.
Having rounded off the evening with a generous portion of tarte tatin laced with crème fraîche from a bowl left on the table, goodbyes said, promises made to come back soon, cries of bonne soirée ringing in their ears, they had headed for home, following a route that took them across the Place de la Concorde – crowded as ever – and on up past the Gare St Lazare towards the Place de Clichy.
It was in the Place de Clichy that Monsieur Pamplemousse had his first intimation of there being something amiss. Normally on a Saturday night it was an area to avoid, but for once it was almost deserted and they were through it in no time at all.
Carrying on up the rue Caulaincourt, they passed Arnaud Larher’s pâtisserie on their left, and Doucette, her mind still dwelling on their meal, announced that on the morrow she would brave the downhill and back up again journey between their home and the shop to buy some lemon tarts.
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mouth h
ad watered at the thought. Larher’s lemon tarts weren’t simply the best in all Paris, they were out of this world. They positively melted in the mouth, leaving an exquisite aftertaste. The secret, so he had read, lay in baking the petit sablé pastry separately so that it retains its crunchiness, brushing it with egg yolk immediately it came out of the oven to seal it, before adding the lemon cream. But he was sure that was only half the story. Hard work and attention to detail played a large part too.
‘I shouldn’t bank on it,’ he said gloomily.
‘Why ever not?’ said Doucette. ‘I can phone ahead and make sure they keep some for me.’
Rounding a right-hand bend halfway up the hill, Monsieur Pamplemousse pointed to the road ahead. ‘That’s why,’ he said.
It was piled high on either side with hailstones. In the pale light from the street lamps they looked for all the world like heaps of giant white marbles.
It was extraordinaire. He had never seen anything quite like it before. It must have been a freak storm, and despite the heat the ice showed no sign of melting. It was no wonder the people who telephoned the restaurant had abandoned the idea of going out.
A number 80 autobus heading towards them in the middle of the road flashed its lights as a warning. Having pulled in to his right to let it go past, he then had difficulty setting off again.
A little further on, past the brow of the hill and going down the other side, he made to turn into the avenue Junot on the final lap of their journey, and having got into a slide, came to rest with the near side of his 2CV jammed against a wall of ice.
That was it! Enough was enough. He decided to call it a day and leave the car where it was until morning. Woe betide any meter maid who gave him a ticket in the meantime.
Pommes Frites eyed his surroundings gloomily as he clambered out through the roof. He’d been looking forward to his postprandial walk after they got home and he’d had a chance to slake his thirst. Now it was clearly out of the question.