by Michael Bond
Elsie paused as some amuse-gueules in the shape of small bowls of soup arrived at their table. Seeing the sommelier hovering nearby, Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head briefly. If he wasn’t careful he would find himself embroiled in a full-scale production number and he was anxious to report back to the Director.
‘Anyway,’ continued Elsie, ‘one way or another Ron got fed up with the old place so ’e put in for a transfer. The thing is, they decided not to call it a jail any more in case it upset what they call the inmates and they needed counselling. That kind of thing costs money these days. It’s now run by something called the National Offenders Management Service.
‘That was the last bleedin’ straw as far as Ron was concerned. ’E got very up in arms about it. Reckons it’s demeaning. ’E maintains the screws don’t like it either on account of the fact that it upsets the delicate relationship they’ve built up and carefully nurtured over the years. They’re thinking about coming out on strike. Well, the screws are thinking of coming out. The ones doing time will ’ave to stay in, of course. Not that it affects Ron any more …’
‘You mean, he is out?’
‘Not entirely,’ said Elsie. ‘’E put in for a transfer to an open prison and it’s come through.’
‘An open prison?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. As was so often the case with Ron’s activities, he found difficulty in keeping up. ‘You have such things? It sounds a contradiction in terms.’
‘Not as far as Ron’s concerned it ain’t,’ said Elsie. ‘’E makes full use of it. It suits ’im down to the ground. ’E’s got all mod cons – television, fax machine, email on ’is computer, so most of ’is friends are on tap and at ’is beck and call. No aggro. Apart from all that, we see each other every other weekend to catch up on what ’e likes to call our “quality time” together. Ron ’as his needs like everyone else. He likes to give his what’sit an airing every now and then. Don’t we all?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse forbore to answer the question. He had often suspected that Ron being almost permanently in jail suited both of them. Elsie always spoke warmly of their getting together on visiting days, and clearly he had his life extremely well organised and didn’t really want for much.
‘They allow such things?’
‘I wouldn’t like to be the warder what tried to stop ’im,’ said Elsie. ‘Accidents can ’appen. A lump of concrete falling off a roof can give a person a nasty ’eadache.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse began to wish he hadn’t brought the subject up, but he was saved by the arrival of the first course.
It was all that Elsie said it would be. The oval-shaped quenelles were beautifully firm, yet with a feather-light texture. He could picture them rising out of the water, breaking the surface like so many tiny whales when cooking was complete. A truly magical moment, but it needed a master’s touch.
The filling was of finely ground pike. There was a hint of nutmeg, and the garnish was a basic sauce Parisienne, made with cream, eggs and butter, lightly seasoned with pepper and salt and a touch of lemon juice, to which sorrel had been added.
With it came a glass of delicious Le Soula Blanc Roussillon from Gérard Gauby. There was only one word to describe it: Parfait.
‘You must allow me to pay for it.’
‘In no way,’ said Elsie. ‘It’s my treat – or rather, Ron’s.’
She looked over her shoulder. ‘’E’s in the money right now.’
‘You still haven’t told me why you are over here,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Elsie pondered the problem for a moment. ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘Ron’s done a deal with the French government in exchange for certain information. I’m over ’ere to collect the cash on account of the fact that it mustn’t appear on the books …’
‘You mean he is trying to avoid paying Income Tax?’
Elsie looked at him pityingly. ‘Know any more jokes? It’s what Ron calls “quid pro quo”. Besides, ’e ’eld all the cards.’
‘May I ask what sort of deal it is?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘You may ask,’ said Elsie, ‘but I can’t tell you. It’s all very ’ush ’ush. Like I told ’Enri … Ron says the fewer people who know about it the better.’
‘Henri!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at her. ‘You surely don’t mean Monsieur Leclercq …’
‘That’s right. I put Ron in touch with ’im first of all because ’e knows so many people in what ’e likes to call the ’igher echelons.’
‘But he told me it was an impeccable source.’
‘Are you saying Ron can’t be trusted?’ demanded Elsie. ‘’E’d be most upset.’
‘No, of course not, but …’
Reaching inside her bag again Elsie took out a mobile phone. ‘The best thing you can do is speak to Ron ’isself about it.’
‘He has a telephone too?’
‘’Course!’ said Elsie, dialling a number. ‘Ron couldn’t live without ’is mobile. Always answers on the first ring.’
After a few seconds had passed she pressed the OFF button. ‘’E must be out shopping – either that or ’e’s having a long lunch somewhere and doesn’t want to be disturbed.’
‘One day,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I must meet Ron.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Elsie, darkly, ‘I get the feeling that may be sooner than you think. In the meantime, I’ll give you ’is number.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took an old envelope from his wallet and handed it to her.
While Elsie was writing he had a sudden thought. ‘I have to go, I’m afraid, but what would you say to a game of pétanque?’
‘I’ve got to ’and it to you,’ said Elsie, staring up at him. ‘You don’t give up, do you? I’ve never ’eard it called that before.’
‘Pétanque,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is a form of boules. It is played in the open air – usually with lots of people watching.’ Briefly, he passed on the news about the hotel’s plans.
‘Ah, well,’ said Elsie, returning his envelope as he made to leave. ‘That’s life. One moment you’re up, the next moment you’re down. I’ve put my mobile number down as well in case you need me.’
‘I will give you some lessons if you like.’
‘Promises, promises,’ said Elsie. ‘Arrivederci!’
‘Ciao,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
It wasn’t until he was on his way out that he noticed the man in blue was nowhere to be seen.
Emerging from the depths of the Da Vinci car park some half an hour or so later, he heard the familiar clink of metal balls making contact with one another to the right of the tarmac area. It was a satisfactory sound; the accompanying music to a game that was undoubtedly being played all over France at that very moment, and which needed no lyrics other than the occasional grunt.
The sound would have been slightly different in Roman times of course. In those days the boules had been fashioned out of stone. In between, artillerymen had played it with cannonballs, doubtless producing an even deeper tone.
Having arrived at the Esplanade rather later in the day than was customary, there were more games than usual in progress. The coat hooks attached to one of the trees were full to overflowing.
The sun was still high in the sky and the various pitches were laid out higgledy-piggledy in all directions as those whose turn it was to throw the tiny wooden cochonnet opted as far as possible to make it land in one of the few shady areas still available.
Standing at the top of the steps, taking in the scene, Monsieur Pamplemousse became aware of a distant shape hurtling towards him from the direction of the Shanghai Chinese restaurant on the far side of the rue Fabert. A moment later Pommes Frites skidded to a halt at his feet, nearly knocking him over in the process.
For a moment or two it was all licks and ruffling of fur as master and hound were reunited; a case of absence making the heart grow fonder, if indeed that were possible. A casual bystander could well have been forgiven for thinking they had bee
n apart for months rather than hours.
Talking of which … regaining his balance, he spotted a flash of colour not far away. It took him a moment or two to recognise the Director’s secretary. He wasn’t used to seeing Véronique in a flowery summer dress. It made a change from her usual black trouser suit. She must have gone straight into the office following his call. She waved as she drew near.
‘Welcome back,’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘Thanks to you and Pommes Frites,’ said Véronique simply. ‘I was determined not to give in, and Monsieur Leclercq wasn’t going to lose face.’
‘No more handbag searches?’
‘Not a word,’ said Véronique. ‘He did have the grace to explain to me what was going on. As if I didn’t know! He tends to forget that a good secretary knows more about her boss than she is often given credit for.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced down at Pommes Frites. Despite having had a good night’s sleep, he was still looking slightly hung-over. Gazing round with his tongue hanging out, he was eyeing all the activity with interest. Joining in a game would do him the world of good.
‘Would you mind waiting here while I fetch my boules from the car?’ he enquired.
‘At least one of us thought you would never ask,’ said Véronique.
‘And I’ve won my bet,’ she said, when he returned. ‘I told Monsieur Leclercq you wouldn’t be able to resist a game before you got back.’
‘You did? What did he say?’
‘He was very pleased at the thought. He said he felt you had been overworking just lately – that and the heat. He was getting worried. Apparently, when you got back from the funeral you were rambling on about someone called Doctor Livingstone and a place called Ujiji. He couldn’t find it anywhere on the map in his office.
‘Anyway, I must get back. Bonne chance.’
Left to his own devices, Monsieur Pamplemousse moved into the open, a little away from the main crowd, and made ready to play. Having thrown the cochonnet within the regulatory distance, he armed himself with the first of his four boules and threw it towards the jack. Much to his disgust, it landed wide of its target, but at least it would serve as a marker.
His second throw was invariably nearer, which proved to be the case on this occasion. Hopefully, the third throw would be better still. His best ever to date had ended up within two centimetres of its target, but that had been something of a fluke due to the stony ground.
He always allowed himself four throws. The first three in the role of the pointeur, aiming to place his boule as near to the jack as possible without actually touching it. For the remaining throw he became the tireur, the player who came in near the end and tried to knock the opponent’s winning boule for six.
After which, it was Pommes Frites’ turn to rush forward and collect the balls one by one. He enjoyed it so much, Monsieur Pamplemousse hadn’t the heart to make use of his magnet on a string, although he was dying to have go with it.
Adopting a firm stance, knees bent, feet close together, he took hold of the fourth boule with his right hand in the prescribed manner; back uppermost, fingers together, and took careful aim, bending his wrist back in order to flick it forward when it was thrown.
Alongside him, he sensed Pommes Frites drawing himself up; muscles tensed, ears back, poised ready to spring into action the moment it had come to rest.
But before that, something totally unexpected happened.
There was a thud as another boule-like metal object landed halfway between them and the jack. It seemed to have come from the direction of the tree where all the coats were draped, effectively masking whoever was responsible.
Monsieur Pamplemousse could hardly believe his eyes. Not only was such a thing in direct contravention of Article 24, which clearly stated that any boule whose trajectory caused it to land on someone else’s territory should be declared null and void, but the object was in fact a good deal less than the regulation minimum diameter of 7.05 centimetres. Worse still, it had grooves cut into its surface! At first he thought it was someone’s idea of a prank. Modifying a boule in any way whatsoever was a serious offence. If proven it could lead to a cancellation of a professional player’s licence for a minimum of fifteen years.
These and other thoughts flashed through his mind at lightning speed as Pommes Frites sprang into action, only to be erased in an instant as a cry of ‘Couchez!’ rang out from somewhere near at hand.
All around him people froze. Such behaviour was beyond the pale. One of the rules of the game, Article 17 in fact, decreed that during a throw everyone had to remain quiet and refrain from walking about, gesticulating or doing anything that could distract the player’s attention.
Pommes Frites, his instant reaction to sudden commands honed to razor-edged perfection over the years, literally hovered in mid air for a fraction of a second, his feet going like paddles as another object flew past his head, missing it by a matter of millimetres.
Whoever had thrown the latest boule was obviously a tireur of some distinction, for it landed on the preceding object with the deadly accuracy of a guided missile, low down and a little to the right of centre, lifting it into the air and sending it flying upwards towards a tarmac area away from the crowd.
It was still gaining height when it exploded. Harmlessly, as it happened, but the shock silenced everyone around them and it was a moment or two before everybody began talking at once.
Hearing the pounding of feet coming from somewhere behind him, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned and was just in time to see a figure running across the Esplanade towards a waiting car. He was pursued by a second figure, already too far away to have any chance of catching up.
The first man was barely inside the back seat of what looked like a dark-blue Renault Megane before it accelerated away, jumped the lights, and disappeared in an easterly direction towards the rue Saint Dominique. Given the distance and the angle, it was impossible to read the rear number plate.
Meanwhile, Pommes Frites, for the moment at least blissfully unaware of the narrowness of his escape from certain death, picked himself up from the spot where he had landed and looked round balefully for the person responsible.
Suddenly his expression changed. Jumping to his feet, his face lit up as he loped across the stony patch of ground to join his master.
‘You realise, of course,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, addressing the new arrival, ‘that what you have just done is in direct contravention of Article 23, which states very clearly that any participant who plays a boule other than his own should receive a warning.’
‘That may be true,’ said Mr Pickering, ‘On the other hand, in accordance with Article 4 of the Fédératation Francaise de Pétanque, if a boule is broken into two or more pieces, the largest piece alone will count for measurement. Unfortunately, in this particular instance that is no longer possible. As far as I can see, there are no large pieces left.
‘Perhaps,’ he continued, bending down to exchange greetings with Pommes Frites, ‘the time has come to rewrite the rule book. The possibility of someone substituting a hand grenade for a boule is clearly one the authorities haven’t thought of. In the meantime, may I suggest we make ourselves scarce.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Having ordered a Cardinal for Monsieur Pamplemousse and a pastis for himself, Mr Pickering left the bar and made his way towards a far corner of the room, away from the windows. ‘By rights, Pommes Frites should be doing the honours,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, moving his precious boules set to one side as his friend joined them. ‘Or I ought to be doing it on his behalf. If you hadn’t called out when you did, he wouldn’t be here now.’
‘I’ll take a rain cheque.’ Mr Pickering pulled up a chair. ‘Anyway, if you want my opinion, it’s a good thing we made ourselves scarce when we did. It saved us having to answer a lot of tedious questions.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t so sure. He’d heard the sound of police sirens coming from all directions while they were be
ating a hasty retreat along the rue Saint Dominique.
Admittedly, it had been in the opposite direction to the one the escaping car had taken, but once descriptions had been circulated it would be more a matter of putting off the evil moment. The police would lose no time in putting two and two together, particularly when they got to hear about the activities of a certain bloodhound, known to have already blotted his copybook once that week. It was for that very reason he’d suggested they find a quiet corner inside one of his regular haunts. Joining the crowd of sun-worshippers occupying the pavement tables outside would have been asking for trouble. At least it being the middle of the afternoon meant no one from Le Guide’s offices was likely to disturb them, but you never knew.
‘I had no idea you were a pétanque player,’ he said.
‘It is one of my lesser-known accomplishments,’ said Mr Pickering modestly. ‘I must admit to being a little rusty, but for a short while I was the South of England champion.
‘Once upon a time I had aspirations to become a trendsetter. Pétanque has a lot of things going for it. Apart from the fact that it can be played on any old patch of level ground, it has one thing in common with our own game of bowls: the players don’t run around in ever-decreasing circles shaking their fists in the air when they’ve scored a point. But I was fighting a losing battle. It doesn’t attract the crowds. The world is becoming more violent by the day.
‘All the same, I never thought I would live to see a hand grenade being thrown.’
‘Things are worse in the south,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily. ‘The mayor of Montpellier has had to cancel the annual pétanque tournament again this year. Since the arrival on the scene of Roma gypsies, the event has become open warfare. Knife-carrying spectators threaten players just as they are about to make a throw. Security dogs are the order of the day. Riot police are regularly called in. Things have become impossible.’
‘No wonder you are so cool about what happened just now,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘It’s small beer.’