by Michael Bond
He speared another prawn.
‘In many ways Le Guide is not unlike the recipe for this dish; it is the sum of its many parts. Take away one and the rot sets in.
‘Currently, Le Guide is suffering from the presence of a suspect crustacea. Such a thing is insidious, for it only takes a single bad one to affect the whole.
‘The culprit in this case is not hard to find. It comes in the shape of a so-called business efficiency expert; a person who, it seems, is able to come and go in their own time and is certainly in a position whereby they can put into effect all manner of little changes, many of which threaten to undermine the very foundations of what, until now, has been a happy and successful company.
‘These things take root and in no time at all begin to multiply, growing like a cancer unless they are caught and dealt with at an early stage.
‘It is what Monsieur Leclercq, fresh from his seminar in the United States, calls the “trickle down” effect.
‘Madame Grante’s refusal to come into the office is a prime example: according to Glandier, expense sheets are piling up, and that in turn means approval of claims is being delayed, which is no small matter.’
‘But, surely …’ Doucette could hardly contain her impatience, ‘if you know the problem, the solution is easy.’
‘I suspect it is more complicated than that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I am only giving you the edited version.’
‘You have met this so-called expert?’ asked Doucette.
‘Not yet,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And now, perhaps I never shall.’
He glanced down at the selection of cutlery left on the table. ‘It is something I intend to get to the bottom of before too long, but in the meantime, what other delights have you in store for me tonight?’
‘Fruit de saison,’ said Doucette. ‘Or yaourt.
‘They are both very good for you,’ she added, seeing the look on his face.
‘Especially after all you have been eating. If only you had let me know you were coming I might have done better …’
‘There has been a lot of catching up to do, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse contritely. ‘Talking of which, have there been any messages for me while we have been away?’
Doucette began clearing the table. ‘Someone was enquiring after you the other day. They asked the concierge if you were still living here, but whoever it was, they didn’t leave a name. He rang to tell me and I went out onto the balcony, pretending I was watering the plants, but I couldn’t see anyone.
‘Also, Véronique phoned. She would like to see you as soon as possible. She said she will be at home this evening …’
‘When was that?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked up in surprise.
‘It must have been shortly after you left the office,’ said Doucette. ‘It sounded urgent, but I didn’t say anything before because I know you. It would have spoilt your dinner. You would either have bolted it down as though there were no tomorrow or else gone without it altogether.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse drained his glass. ‘As far as my problem with Pommes Frites is concerned, I am afraid the chief had a point,’ he said. ‘There is only one way to stop it. Find the person who sent the photograph, and take it from there.’
‘Who could it possibly be?’ said Doucette.
Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘Perhaps Véronique has some ideas.’ Rising from the table, he disconnected his phone, which had been on charge, and waved towards the darkened balcony. ‘But whoever it is, they must be out there somewhere.’
‘Wrap up well,’ said Doucette in a resigned tone of voice. ‘The nights are still cold.’
Slipping out of the room, she returned a moment later armed with his coat and scarf and a piece of paper.
‘Véronique said you know her address, but she gave me the entry code.’
‘I’m sorry, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, kissing her goodbye. ‘It is good to be home, but perhaps you could ring her and say I am on my way.’
‘Take care …’
‘I happen to think Le Guide is worth preserving,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, simply. ‘Come what may.’
‘Even though you are no longer working for it?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded.
‘I suppose that is one of the reasons why I married you,’ sighed Doucette.
‘And I thought it was for my looks and my money.’
‘One out of three isn’t bad,’ said Doucette, doing up the top button of the overcoat. ‘Will you be taking you know who?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. Glancing down, he saw a pair of enquiring eyes. While his wife’s back was turned he gave a brief nod in her direction and in return received the canine equivalent of ‘d’accord’.
Given that he had already done enough driving for one day, he set off on foot rather than take his car. As he left the apartment block he gave a quick look round the immediate area, before turning sharp right.
In direct contrast to the southern slopes of Montmartre, where everything went on far into the early hours, the northern side of the Butte was usually deserted at night and the news that some unnamed person had been enquiring after his whereabouts was unsettling to say the least.
Whoever coined the phrase ‘the dark is light enough’ must have been an incurable romantic. Romantic it might be in the right company. Reassuring it was not.
Reaching a flight of stone steps leading down to the rue Caulaincourt, he thought he heard the sound of footsteps coming from an alleyway running alongside the deserted boules park to his left.
A little voice inside him having whispered ‘watch it, Pamplemousse’, he waited in the shadows for a moment or two before deciding he must have been mistaken.
Part of him regretted leaving Pommes Frites behind, but in the circumstances he felt it was the right decision. There was also the fact that anyone in the know would automatically associate the one with the other; whenever either one of them appeared on the scene, the other wouldn’t be far away. One couldn’t be too careful.
Carrying on down the steps, he reached rue Caulaincourt just in time to see the tail lights of an 80 bus disappearing up the road to his left.
Given it would be a good ten minutes or so before the next one arrived, he was on the point of crossing the road with a view to taking the Metro when he saw a taxi pulling away from the traffic lights.
Flagging it down, he was about to climb in when he heard the sound of a car engine starting up. Glancing across the small square he saw the headlights of what looked like a dark coloured Renault Megane come on.
‘Follow the 80 bus,’ he said to his driver. ‘Vite!’
The driver gave a grunt as they moved off.
Taking a closer look at the back of the man’s head, Monsieur Pamplemousse realised he could be up against a language problem. It was a sign of the times. Taxi drivers not only acted as a barometer to the state of things generally, they also reflected what was happening in far-flung parts of the world. At the time of the Russian revolution Parisian cab drivers had mostly been aristocrats escaping the mob. Now it was refugees from Vietnam and Cambodia or some other war-torn remnant of the French Empire.
Reaching into a hip pocket, he withdrew his credit card wallet, flipped it open momentarily and held it up to the rearview mirror. ‘Police!’
The effect was instantaneous. He felt the kick in his back from the Merc’s engine as the driver put his foot down. By the time they reached the outskirts of Montmartre cemetery they had caught up with the bus and had to wait their turn at the traffic lights.
Wondering if he had done the right thing after all, he peered out through the back window and, seeing the Renault just breasting the top of the hill and coming up fast behind them, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to keep his options open for the time being.
The Place Clichy – busy as ever, bright lights, flashing neon signs, crowds queuing for the cinemas – was awash with traffic going in all directions. Fearing his drive
r might obey instructions to the letter and tuck the car in behind the bus, he instructed the man to carry on, rattling off the route from memory, making doubly sure the message had gone home.
‘When you get to the Avenue de la Motte-Picquet, turn right,’ he said finally. ‘I will tell you when to stop …’
As the lights changed and they accelerated down the relative gloom of the rue de Léningrad, he sank back into his seat, content for the moment to leave matters to the man at the wheel and the good offices of Monsieur Fiacre, Irish hermit and patron saint of taxi-drivers. The big plus, of course, was the fact that by following the same path as the 80 they could make use of bus lanes for much of the way.
He found himself slipping out of one role and into another; from an inspector working for Le Guide, back in time to the days when he was an inspector in the Paris Sûreté. In truth, he was beginning to enjoy himself.
Gare St Lazare came and went. For once, traffic along both the Boulevard Haussmann and the Avenue Matignon was minimal, but Place de l’Alma was the usual sea of cars and buses entering it and leaving from every possible direction.
There was no sign of the Renault. Which didn’t mean it wasn’t there; cars were jockeying for position all around them. His driver wriggled through it with masterly aplomb and more than made up for the delay by once again making use of the bus lane operating against the normal flow of traffic in the rue Bosquet.
Two stops along the Avenue de la Motte-Picquet, past the vast École Militaire, they reached a junction where the bus turned left, and he signalled the driver to stop.
It was tempting to tell him to send the bill to the Quai des Orfèvres, which he would have done in the old days, but as the interior light came on, he caught sight of a photograph of two small children attached to the dashboard.
‘Yours?’
The driver nodded, his face full of pride. ‘They will be excited when I tell them about tonight.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily changed his mind, adding a handsome tip for good measure before he was asked for his autograph.
As the car sped off into the night, he crossed over to the Metro station, took the escalator up to the first level, then made his way up a flight of steps to await the next train to Étoile.
The platform was deserted and nobody else put in an appearance before one arrived. So far, so good.
It was a long time since he had travelled on the elevated line 6. It wasn’t simply another view of Paris; at night it was a series of glimpses into other people’s lives; a voyeuristic pleasure not unlike a series of disconnected soap operas. Shadowy figures flitted to and fro, or sat at table, sometimes singly, but mostly in pairs or small groups, eating and drinking, watching the ‘real thing’ on their television screens.
In all probability, behind other windows with closed shutters, all manner of minor dramas were being played out; couples making love, arguing, putting children to bed … or in some cases, coming to terms with old age and loneliness.
Most of the other passengers in his carriage, who probably did the journey every day of their lives, carried on reading their books.
An illuminated poster advertising someone’s latest single – ‘Every day I love you less and less’ came and went. Then the vast shape of the Eiffel Tower loomed into view as they crossed the river by the Pont de Bir Hakeim and, as luck would have it, came alight for its nightly on-the-hour display of pyrotechnics, like some giant firework throwing sparks in all directions.
Realising he had totally lost all track of time, he glanced down at his wrist, only to discover his watch was missing.
He could have sworn he had been wearing it when he left the taxi. Looking around the floor of the carriage, he drew a blank. It must have happened somewhere before boarding the train. If that were the case the chances of finding it would be zero.
Seeing the look of consternation on his face, a woman across the aisle volunteered the fact that it was ten o’clock.
Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked her, but he was inwardly shattered. It was like losing an old friend and he felt bereft, as though something irreplaceable had gone out of his life.
He alighted at the first stop on the far side of the Seine, before the train plunged into the Passy tunnel. Faced with a choice of exits: an escalator leading up to Passy itself, or down a long flight of steps leading to the rue de l’Alboni and the river, he chose the latter. If people were interested in his movements, the last thing he wanted was for them to connect him with the Director’s secretary. Call it a belt and braces approach, but that was the way he had been taught, and old habits died hard.
Bernard would have been pleased. According to him, it was on the first floor of No. 1 rue de l’Alboni that Marlon Brando and Maria Schneider memorably discovered a novel use for margarine while filming Last Tango in Paris.
Below him, he could hear the endless roar of traffic alongside the river, but once again, there was hardly anyone around. Climbing a flight of stone steps, he made his way along a wide walkway immediately below the Metro line he had just travelled on.
Halfway across the bridge he waited for a gap in the traffic and made for yet another flight of steps, this time leading down to Allée des Cygnes, the man-made island linking it with the Pont de Grenelle further downstream.
During the summer months, when the trees lining either side of the central pathway were in full leaf, it made for a pleasant stroll on a sunny afternoon. On a dark winter’s night, with the wind blowing off the river, it felt as cold as charity. He was glad he’d heeded Doucette’s advice and worn a scarf.
The walk suited him, though. It helped clear his mind.
It wasn’t the first time he had found himself out of a job. The previous occasion had also been the result of a set-up. Allegations regarding some girls at the Folies-Bergères at a time when the police were themselves being investigated had resulted in his taking early retirement from the Sûreté.
And yet … in life there are moments when things can seem unutterably bleak, then you turn a corner and suddenly all is sunshine again. It had been that way with Le Guide. Just when it seemed as though his life lay in ruins about his feet, a chance meeting with Monsieur Leclercq had provided a golden opportunity to start a new career. Because of his special knowledge and past experience with the food squad, the association had proved invaluable over the years, whenever either Le Guide, or the Director himself had been in trouble. The thought that it had now come to an end through no fault of his own was something he had yet to come to terms with.
But if it were another set-up – and he could think of no other word for it – who could have taken the picture? And why? Was there someone out there who had it in for him personally, or was it yet another way of getting at Le Guide? Whoever it was, they must have access to inside knowledge.
A Bâteau-Mouche crowded with diners swept past him at speed. From a distance it all looked very romantic; each of its many tables lit by a solitary red shaded lamp, the rest shrouded in a darkness broken only by white-jacketed waiters flitting to and fro. He hoped the food and wine lived up to the setting. For many it would be a night to remember.
Talking of which … he quickened his step. If the Director’s secretary was sending out a call for help – and that’s what it sounded like – it must be something serious.
In all the years he had been with Le Guide he had never known Véronique lose her cool. In many ways she reminded him of Miss Moneypenny in the James Bond films; efficient, imperturbable, tantalisingly self-contained, and sexy with it; almost too good to be true, one might say.
Boulet, ex-wine journal correspondent and Le Guide’s most recent recruit, had made a bee-line for her on his arrival, and having been rebuffed in no uncertain manner, spread the rumour that she must be a lesbian. But that was only pique, and no one really believed it anyway.
He glanced across the river. The vast apartment blocks adjacent to the Radio France complex looked too snooty for words. He was glad she didn’t live there. The older
ones he was heading for looked much more inviting.
The fact that Véronique lived in the chic 16th arrondissement of Paris at all must have appealed to the Director when she first joined him. Monsieur Leclercq set great store by such things.
He had to admit to feeling slightly envious himself. There was something about living near water that appealed to him. After Montmartre, it was like being in the middle of the country. Ignored by guide books, the 16th tended to be patronised by the more intellectual tourists.
If it wasn’t film buffs looking for the site of Last Tango in Paris, it would be others searching for Balzac’s old house. Poor old Balzac, up to his eyes in debt, living there under the assumed name of M. de Brugnal as he worked on La Comédie Humaine. Nowadays people were more interested in seeing his coffee pot and photographs of his amour, the Comtesse Hanska, than they were reading the novels he had slaved over.
The thought reminded him of the last time he had spent any time in the area.
Curiously enough, it was when Le Guide had been under a previous attack. On that occasion, the crime had involved someone hacking into their brand new computer, reprogramming its selection for the Restaurant of the Year and the supreme accolade of a Golden Stock Pot Lid.
He could still remember the look on the Director’s face when he ceremonially pressed the button and the words Wun Pooh appeared on the printout; although that was nothing compared to the moment when research revealed it was a Chinese takeaway in Dieppe.
Monsieur Leclercq had inveigled him into assuming the temporary title Head of Security, and since his knowledge of computers at the time could have been written on the back of a postage stamp he had sought the aid of an expert in the field.
He wondered if Martine Borel still lived in her flat overlooking the ivy-covered walls of the rue Berton, Balzac’s escape route from his many creditors. He somehow doubted it. She was a high flier and the computer industry changed more rapidly than most.
A second Bâteau-Mouche overtook him; this time it was armed with a battery of floodlights, illuminating the passing scene on both sides of the river. For a mercifully brief moment he was bathed in light as it swept past. So much for keeping a low profile. It left him feeling as naked as the day he was born.