by Michael Bond
‘I don’t play the game myself, but I’m told that according to what is known as “The Fanny Legend”, if a team fails to score a single point they are supposed to kneel and embrace the backside of a voluptuous female effigy that is kept for the purpose. I suspect our team will be hoping for the worst so that they can do it for real.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but think the members of the Association Sportif Jardin du Luxembourg might have something to say about that. They took the game seriously. Not only did they have mobile coat racks for use in the hot weather, but they kept their boules in numbered boxes behind a let-down flap in the side of their hut. They wouldn’t take kindly to being invaded by a motley collection of outsiders from the Pommes d’Or. Speaking personally, for the time being he would stick to his usual haunt near the office.
‘I owe you one,’ he said, keeping those thoughts to himself. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Bonnard. ‘Besides, I had orders from on high to make sure you got all you wanted.’
‘Good luck with your computers,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse as he took his leave. ‘May their bugs be for ever little ones.’
‘Computers are like Krispy Kremes,’ said Bonnard, helping himself from the box. ‘They’re addictive. But at least Krispy Kremes are oven fresh. They do say the average computer mouse harbours four hundred times more bugs on its surface than any run-of-the-mill seat from a public toilet.’
‘There’s no answer to that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Just don’t sit on one, that’s all,’ said Bonnard. ‘Bon appétit.’
CHAPTER SIX
Trailing a couple of lengths behind the maître d’hôtel as he steered a discreetly circuitous course around and between the tables and pillars of the Pommes d’Or’s three Stock Pot restaurant, Monsieur Pamplemousse was acutely aware of two things. First of all, he was hardly dressed for the occasion, and secondly his movements were almost certainly being watched in various other parts of the hotel. He wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone else but, despite the inaptitude of the analogy, his legs felt all fingers and thumbs, and he found difficulty in maintaining his normal easy gait.
It was ridiculous, of course. Covert surveillance had never bothered him in the past. But then, he had generally been on the other end of it. It was the first time he’d felt himself quite so much centre stage, as it were, caught in the full beam of the spotlight. The fact that the situation was entirely his own making, and he had no idea where it was likely to lead him anyway, didn’t help matters.
Even now, Bonnard was probably taking an anticipatory bite from one of his Krispy Kremes before pressing the RECORD button. Thank heaven his enthusiastic espousal of the latest in security surveillance didn’t embrace the addition of a sound track. That really would be inhibiting.
To be honest, he also missed having Pommes Frites at his side. It was like being bereft of his right arm.
Somewhere en route, between one pillar and the next, he registered the lone figure of the man who had already been pointed out to him on one of the Security Section’s screens. It could have been a repeat performance of their feed from the kitchen.
Mrs Beardmore’s husband, if that were indeed his station in life – perhaps Toy Boy might be a better job description; seen in the flesh he looked younger than Claye, which wasn’t difficult – was seated at exactly the same table near the far wall to his right. He was wearing a casual open-neck, light blue shirt beneath a single-breasted dark blue blazer.
It didn’t need more than a cursory glance to confirm that he was tucking in to a feuillantine de langoustine. He felt the man’s eyes following his progress across the room.
‘Well! Look what the wind’s blow in!’ Glancing up from her menu as he drew near, Elsie registered genuine surprise.
‘I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that the world is an even smaller place than it is said to be,’ replied Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I won’t stop long, but do you mind if I join you for a moment or two?’
Taking advantage of the proffered chair, he made to sit down before she had a chance to answer; not that he expected her response to be anything other than welcoming.
‘Would you care for a celebratory glass of champagne?’
‘’Ave you ever known me to say “No”?’ asked Elsie.
Catching the maître d’hôtel’s eye, he gave a nod. In truth, it was a loaded question; impossible to answer without running the risk of causing offence, although once again he doubted if that would happen. Elsie was Elsie, and it wasn’t in her nature to take offence.
During the brief moment the sliding of his chair into place afforded him, he did a quick mental replay of the last time he and Elsie had been together. As far as he could see, nothing had changed; the same deceptively innocent blue eyes returned his gaze, panning down and zooming in to a close-up of his own as he sat down. The effect was also very much as he remembered it. Irrésistible! There was no other word for it. Little things: the chemical reaction in the pit of his stomach as parts of it turned to water; a noticeable quickening of the pulse rate.
‘Where’s Pommes Frites got to, then?’ said Elsie. ‘Don’t tell me they’ve put ’im inside after what went on last night.’
‘You’ve heard about it?’
‘’Eard? I not only ’eard. I saw it. Went past me like a dose of salts ’e did. Didn’t even stop to pass the time of day. Mind you, seeing the look in his eye I can’t say I’m sorry.
‘The last time we met, the first thing ’e did was stick his nose up you know where. Goodness knows what ’e would have done last night given ’alf a chance.’
‘As I recall,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, rising to Pommes Frites’ defence, ‘you were wearing a very short skirt at the time.’
‘And ’e had a nose like a wet truffle,’ said Elsie, not to be outdone.
‘He was only trying to be friendly,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse lamely. ‘He can’t help himself.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ replied Elsie. ‘I’ve met ’is sort before.’
‘Pardon, Monsieur.’ The maître d’hôtel handed him a menu before reluctantly taking his leave. Although clearly in an ideal world he would have been only too pleased to linger, perhaps making the most of enumerating various specialities of the day, his long years of training denied him the pleasure.
Not that Monsieur Pamplemousse would have blamed him. Elsie had that effect on most men. She was like a luscious peach, full of juice and ripe for plucking; a walking temptation for anyone passing to sink their teeth into the warm flesh. Although, that said, he strongly suspected that when it came down to it, as with her counterpart in the wild, she would be equally adept at keeping tantalisingly just out of reach.
While waiting for the champagne to arrive he made pretence of scanning the menu.
Not only was Elsie the stuff of which many men’s dreams are made (and a good many women’s too, if they could only bring themselves to admit it), she cooked like the proverbial angel. So much so, she could probably have told the chef a thing or two if she had a mind to.
They had first met when she was working as an English au pair to Monsieur and Madame Leclercq. One of her own specialities, until PC intervened and the powers that be insisted on renaming it, had been a dish called ‘Spotted Dick’.
He rated it second only to her Yorkshire puddings, and his eulogising on such titbits of inside information at the staff get-together later that same year gave rise to a good many guffaws.
Unfortunately, human nature being what it is, the dice was heavily loaded against Elsie. Not content at having provided her with a pair of doudounes, the firmness and amplitude of which were far in excess of the national average, gilding the lily with more than a morsel of natural dexterity at the kitchen stove (a lethal combination in many men’s eyes), mother nature had bestowed on her a generosity of spirit which manifested itself in a simple desire to share her good fortune with all those she came into contact
with. It was an attribute that immediately aroused the suspicions of other members of her sex; the distaff side of married couples in particular. And whether or not they had just cause, who could blame them?
In vain had Monsieur Leclercq made much of what he swore were her perennial headaches. No one, least of all his wife, Chantal, actually believed a word of it. From the word go, the writing had been on the wall as far as Elsie was concerned. Her stay at the Leclercq’s residence had been short and, it has to be said, a not entirely happy one.
Some while later, unbeknown to both Chantal and Doucette, for reasons best left unrecorded, and following a certain amount of behind-the-scenes pressure from Elsie herself, she had enjoyed a spell as the first and in all probability the last trainee female inspector working for Le Guide.
At the Director’s bidding, it had fallen to Monsieur Pamplemousse to take her under his wing while he was working in the Bordeaux area. The vast sand dunes situated near Arcachon might well have told a tale or two on that score had the prevailing westerly gales not swept them clean at regular intervals during the succeeding winter months.
‘Anyway,’ said Elsie, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Where did you spring from?’
‘I was about to ask you the same question,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
She reached across the table and gave him a dig in the ribs. ‘Couldn’t keep away from you, could I? I’m only ’uman flesh and blood when all’s said and done.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse began to feel doubly pleased the security system lacked sound.
Elsie reached under the table and withdrew a clipboard. ‘Ron gave me this just before I came over. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m ’ere on official business. I’m working as an ’ealth inspector for the French government, in I. All expenses paid.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at her while the champagne arrived. It was the last thing he expected to hear.
‘You? A health inspector?’ he said, as soon as the waiter had gone.
Elsie tried to look hurt. Pursing her lips in a way that could have cracked a light bulb at fifty paces, it had quite the opposite effect. ‘What’s wrong with that? You saying I’m un’ealthy or summock?’
‘No, of course not. But …’ Feeling hot under the collar, Monsieur Pamplemousse groped blindly for a passing straw. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘you are not French …’
‘Dear, oh dear,’ said Elsie. ‘Lose ten points and return to Go! That’s not the end of the world, you know, even if you lot think it is. We’re all in the Common Market now. Some of us is more in it than others, of course, but it’s all a matter of flashing the right bit of paper and Ron saw to that. It’s a work of art.’
Feeling for her handbag, she opened it and withdrew an official-looking document. ‘Apart from a small matter of the ink being ’ardly dry, you can’t tell it from the real thing …’ave a decko.’
Running his eyes over the piece of paper Elsie handed him, Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit he couldn’t fault it. Even the embossed heading looked genuine. But then, he didn’t really know what to look for in the first place.
‘It’s like Ron says, so long as it looks kosher, who’s going to query it?’ said Elsie. ‘Most people ’aven’t seen the real thing anyway. Attach it to a clipboard like so …’ she paused to demonstrate, ‘and it’ll get you anywhere.’
‘Anyway,’ she raised her glass. ‘Bottoms up! I’ve got my kit of parts and I’m all ready to go.’
Knowing she was almost bound to tell him, Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t even bother to ask what they were.
Instead, he watched while she moved a small vase of flowers from the centre of the table to one side. ‘Close your eyes.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse did as he was told.
‘Open them.’
Glancing down he saw that in place of the vase there was now a small transparent plastic box. He could have sworn something black inside it moved, almost as though blinded by the light.
‘Meet Matilda,’ said Elsie. ‘Ron’s pet cockroach. He says they ’aven’t changed very much since Carboniferous times – that’s over two hundred and fifty million years ago. Ron has time to study these things in the prison library. He says it’s one of the best things about being inside.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse, dreading the answer and fearing the worst.
‘Matilda’s what you might call my insurance policy,’ said Elsie.
‘When Ron was working a scam as a catering adviser, ’e used to take ’er with him whenever ’e went out to eat in order to make sure ’e got good service.
‘Mind you, ’e always played fair. ’E used to show Matilda to the owner first. “’Ow would it be,” he used to say, all casual like, “’ow would it be if I found one of these in your soup doing the breaststroke? It wouldn’t look too good, would it, ’owever beautifully it’s been garnished? Especially if it gets to be shown on prime-time television.” Ron can be very persuasive when he likes.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed in horror at the object in the box, then hastily moved his chair closer to the table in an effort to screen it from any cameras that might be trained in their direction. At least they were outside Bonnard’s direct control, otherwise he would undoubtedly be zooming in for a tight close-up; probably choking on his Krispy Kremes in his excitement. Unfolding his own menu, he held it over the table for added protection.
‘Put it away,’ he hissed.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Elsie innocently. ‘A little cockroach won’t do you no ’arm.
‘Mind you, if you ’appen to be another cockroach and you’re male it’s a different matter on account of the fact that the female ones ’ave got funny habits; like if they’re ’ungry they’re not above eating the male even while they’re ’aving it off. They start at the ’ead and work their way down. I expect they save the best bit until last. It must be a matter of timing really when they get near the end as to which ’as top priority. I keep telling Ron – ’e wants to watch out!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was hardly listening. Visions of what might happen if Monsieur Leclercq got wind of what was going on flashed through his mind. And not simply the Director. The media would have a field day if they picked up on the story. He could see the headlines. ‘LE GUIDE INSPECTOR INVOLVED IN RESTAURANT SCAM.’ For a moment it felt as though his world was in danger of collapsing. He would never live it down.
‘You can’t do it,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t. Promise me.’
Elsie gazed back it him with her big round blue eyes.
‘Only if I ’ave to,’ she said, noncommittally. ‘My old grandfather always taught me – there’s no such word in the English language as “can’t”.
‘Besides, I don’t know what Ron would do if ’e lost Matilda. He only taught ’er to swim didn’t ’e? She’s a lovely little mover. ’E made me promise on no account must I ever give ’er up. Show them your credentials, that’s ’is motto. Say they can’t ’ave ’er because she’s scheduled to be exhibit “A” in any court case that comes up.’ Reaching under the table, Elsie gave his left knee a squeeze.
‘Don’t worry. Like I say, it’s an insurance policy. For use only in cases of emergency. We’d better make sure we don’t ’ave one, that’s all I can say.’
Withdrawing her hand, she took hold of his menu with the other. As she did so he realised the box had disappeared. ‘It’s a case of “Find the Lady” innit,’ said Elsie, flashing him a warning signal with her eyes.
‘My friend doesn’t fancy the soup,’ she announced, as a Head of Station waiter materialised, pad and pencil at the ready. ‘Tell you what,’ she continued, turning back to Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘why don’t you ’ave some Quenelles de brochet? That’s what I’m ’aving. Sure you won’t change your mind and stay?’
‘Superb!’ said the waiter, nodding his approval.
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt himself weakening. It would be a grave dereliction of duty to visit a three Stock Pot restaura
nt and leave without tasting a single dish; one which would be hard to explain.
‘Make that two,’ he said.
‘If I may also suggest, Madame …’ leaning over Elsie’s shoulder the waiter ran his pencil down the menu, indicating possible dishes to follow. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that while he was talking the man’s eyes were not entirely directed where they should have been. He looked quite cross-eyed.
In response to a direct question, he held up his hand. ‘I won’t,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I shall have to go after the first course. Perhaps another time …’
‘What’s up?’ asked Elsie, catching sight of Monsieur Pamplemousse smiling to himself after she had finished ordering. ‘Is it summock I’ve said?’
He avoided the question. The truth was, he couldn’t help being amused by the thought of trying to explain to anyone he knew that he’d been playing ‘Find the Lady’ involving a cockroach called Matilda. Especially if he let on whom he had been playing it with.
‘Your extramural activities aside,’ he persisted, ‘what else are you up to?’
‘Looking after Ron’s interests,’ said Elsie, dodging the question. ‘You know Ron. ’E’s got ’is fingers in all sorts of pies.’
‘Like funerals?’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse, testing the water. ‘If I am not mistaken, you were at Gaston’s earlier in the week.’
‘Me?’ said Elsie. ‘You want to take more water with it next time. Anyway, ask no questions, get told no lies. I was what you might call Ron’s representative.’
‘He knew Gaston?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Elsie. ‘Ron was very upset when he heard the news. He couldn’t come ’isself on account of having ’ad his passport taken away from ’im, so I came instead.’
‘So he is still in jail?’
‘Yes,’ said Elsie, ‘and then again, no. He’s not exactly out, like ’e’s been released. He wouldn’t be too keen on that anyway. The trouble was ’e kept getting ’is sentence reduced for good behaviour. Like I say, that’ll teach ’im.’