by Michael Bond
‘If you ask me,’ said Chantal, ‘Henri went to some nightclub or other while he was in New York. No doubt you remember Regine. It was her trademark when she ran a club in Paris. I suspect whoever was responsible must have kept the piece she cut off as a souvenir. It is not in his suitcase.’
‘In Germany, during carnival week,’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I believe women dress up as witches and roam the streets armed with scissors, snipping the end off men’s ties. It is a symbolic gesture, which interestingly starts at exactly 11.11 a.m., eleven being the magic carnival number.’
‘That takes place in February,’ said Chantal. ‘Besides, I met Henri at the airport and I know he came off the plane from New York.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse conceded defeat. He had done his best – he couldn’t do more.
‘What I did come across in his carry-on bag,’ continued Chantal, ‘was a handkerchief covered in lipstick. It had been stuffed inside a little used compartment. There was also a membership card for some kind of health club. It sounded very suspect to me.
‘And another thing …’ Madame Leclercq was in full flight and there was no stopping her. ‘Normally, when Henri arrives home after a long trip he takes it easy for the rest of the week, but the very next day he went out early saying he had an urgent appointment, and later that morning I saw him lurking in Dior.
‘I happened to be parking my car on the other side of the Avenue Montaigne and he was peering out into the street. By the time I entered the shop he had disappeared. The staff denied all knowledge, of course. No doubt they had been suitably primed, but I know I wasn’t seeing things.’
‘He could have been looking for a new tie,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse hopefully.
‘In the dress department?’
‘Christmas isn’t so far away,’ countered Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He may have been buying you a present.’
‘He could have done that while he was in New York,’ said Chantal.
‘And that’s another thing … something happened on the return flight.’
‘It did?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. Endeavouring to inject a suitable note of surprise into his voice it came out rather higher pitched than he had intended.
‘In my experience,’ continued Chantal, ‘there is only one thing more calculated to arouse a wife’s suspicions than having her husband ring up out of the blue from the middle of the Atlantic ocean to tell her there is absolutely nothing to worry about …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked up his ears. One learnt something new every day. ‘Tell me,’ he said.
‘That is when he pretends to be an American businessman who is having trouble with his daughter and has got the wrong number,’ said Chantal. ‘Henri may fancy himself as an actor, but I would know his voice anywhere.
‘He even had the gall to suggest we meet up while he was in Paris. Naturally, I said “yes”. I thought it might teach him a lesson. Besides, I knew he wasn’t in a position to carry it through.’
‘Perhaps it was some kind of game,’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘If that were so,’ said Chantal, ‘it certainly took the airline in. A large bouquet of flowers arrived yesterday morning, along with a letter of apology. It was addressed to Mademoiselle Leclercq, suggesting that if she cared to submit a bill from the cleaners it would be taken care of. They sincerely hoped she would fly with them again in the very near future. Can you explain that?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse could have, but he didn’t. He waited instead.
‘Henri has been behaving very strangely ever since he got back,’ said Chantal. ‘Usually, when he returns from America he is full of the latest jargon. He can’t wait to pepper his speech with what he thinks are the latest Americanisms: hostile environment, fast track, synergy, bottom line, revisit, leverage, game plan, back boiler … Usually, by the time he arrives home they are already passé, and in this instance doubly so because he had already used most of them up over the telephone.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sat down beside her. ‘I have no doubt there is a simple explanation.’
‘Do you really think so?’ Chantal rested a hand on his for a moment, her blue eyes full of hope. ‘I am so worried.’
‘I am certain of it.’
‘The problem is,’ she said slowly, ‘my Uncle Caputo. You know what he is like.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. Having had dealings with Madame Leclercq’s Sicilian uncle in the past, he did indeed know what he was like. His real name was Rocco and he hadn’t acquired the nickname Caputo for nothing. His Mafia connections were common knowledge.
‘Surely, there is no reason why he should know. Whatever transpired, it can hardly be headline news.’
‘That is just the trouble,’ said Chantal. ‘It is really why I came to see you, Aristide. I trust I may call you Aristide?’ She gave his hand a squeeze. ‘You see, he rang up out of the blue yesterday evening and asked if all was well between Henri and myself.
‘It seems a business friend of his, who runs a chain of mobile laundries in Palermo, was travelling on the same plane and witnessed some kind of encounter between my husband and a young nun who was sitting next to him. Uncle Caputo’s friend has connections with financial circles in the Vatican and they were appalled by the news. To make matters worse, he also reported back that he heard Henri trying to make a date with someone.’
Reminded of the Director’s comment about the kind of people one met when travelling first class, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but give a wry smile.
‘I am Uncle Caputo’s favourite niece,’ continued Chantal, ‘and he told me he didn’t know what he would do if anything went wrong with our marriage. Reading between the lines, I think he knows exactly what he would do, and it wouldn’t be very pleasant. Henri would have more than the end of his tie cut off. And that would only be the beginning.
‘I am so worried for him. I know Uncle Caputo. Once he has made up his mind to do something, that is it. He is a man of his word. To go back on it would be to lose respect. In his position he cannot afford to make allowances for the frailties of others.’
‘It is all very unfortunate,’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but I am not sure how I can help …’
‘He hopes you will do something about it. He said he knew you wouldn’t let him down.’
‘Me?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse sat up. ‘Why me?’
‘He thinks very highly of you,’ said Chantal. ‘That has been so ever since the time you saved his daughter from a fate worse than death. If you remember, you acted as her escort when she came to Paris by train that time.’
With the avowed intention of opening a brothel, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. No sooner had the night express from Rome arrived at the Gare de Lyon than she disappeared. It had turned out well in the end, but for a while his life had been teetering on a knife edge. He wouldn’t want to risk a repeat performance.
‘A lovely girl,’ he said. ‘So like her father, even though she was still at school.’
‘I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to Henri,’ said Chantal simply. ‘He means the world to me.’
Suddenly reaching across, she threw her arms around Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Enveloping him in a cloud of heady perfume, she pressed her bosom against his and began to cry.
‘Before he hung up,’ she said between sobs, ‘Uncle Caputo asked me what size shoes Henri wears. We all know what that means …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was too much of a gentleman to put it into words, but phrases like ‘concrete boots’ and ‘bottom of the Seine’ immediately sprang to mind.
‘He specifically mentioned the Canal St Martin,’ said Chantal, reading his mind.
‘He looks on it as doing me a favour. He kept saying things like “You are one of the famiglia, Chantal. It is all for the best”.
‘You must help me, Aristide. Please, I beg of you … I feel so frightened and alone and I have no one else to turn to …’
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nbsp; With the best will in the world, Monsieur Pamplemousse found it hard to avoid feeling his stomach turning to water. He was dimly aware of the fact that somewhere in their apartment a phone was ringing, but escape was impossible. A tear landing on his cheek rolled unchecked onto his shirt. He pictured the trail of mascara it must have left in its wake. Doucette would not be pleased.
Instinctively reaching down to his trouser pocket for a handkerchief, he encountered a hand. It was even warmer than it had been the first time, and he was about to withdraw his own for fear his action might be misconstrued, when it was caught in a vice-like grip.
‘I forget,’ said Doucette sweetly, as she came back into the room carrying a tray. ‘Do you take milk with your coffee?’
‘Trouble, Aristide?’ she asked, as soon as Chantal had departed. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing some of it.’
‘You could say, Couscous, I was saved by the proverbial bell.’
Straightening the cushions, Doucette sniffed the air. ‘Eau d’Hadrien from Annick Goutal.
‘I asked her,’ she said, seeing her husband’s look of surprise. ‘It is said to be very seductive. No wonder you were in need of being rescued.’
‘Italians dramatise everything,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is in their blood. Monsieur Leclercq is potentially in much deeper water than I am.’
He must also have been skating on thinner ice than he realised during his shopping tour with Maria. Had they met up in Annick Goutal, for example, Chantal might have rendered her Uncle’s services null and void on the spot.
‘And you intend going to his aid?’
‘Looking at the whole matter realistically,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I don’t really have much choice. There is an old saying. “Once a policeman …”’
‘“… always a policeman”.’ Doucette finished the sentence for him.
‘The words are as true today, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘as when they were first uttered.’
‘I know,’ sighed Doucette, ‘but if I have said it once, Aristide, I have said it a hundred times. I did think when you went to work for a food guide it would be the end of my worries. Instead of which …’
‘It won’t be for long,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse optimistically. ‘In the meantime, perhaps we can go out this evening and make the most of my being at home …’ Catching the look on her face, he broke off. ‘No?’
‘Véronique phoned while you were otherwise engaged,’ said Doucette. ‘She has made a reservation for you tonight at Lapérouse.’ She took a closer look. ‘I think you had better change your shirt before you go anywhere.’
‘Lapérouse? Are you sure?’ It didn’t sound like Véronique.
‘Positive. Eight o’clock. She said it is in your name, but not to worry; the bill will be taken care of. She also made the point that it wasn’t her choice and suggested you take Pommes Frites with you.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked dubious.
‘It’s all right for some,’ said Doucette.
‘I was thinking I would rather he stayed at home,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I don’t like leaving you on your own.’
‘I haven’t been to Lapérouse since that time you took me soon after we met,’ said Doucette dreamily. ‘I remember it all so clearly; the mirrors and the decorated ceilings, the panelling, the candle-light … most of all the candle-light. It was all very romantic, or so it seemed at the time.
‘All my friends teased me and suggested you were planning to seduce me in one of their petits salons discret; the ones with just room for two and a bell to let the waiter know when it is safe to enter.’
‘Were you very disappointed finding yourself in one of the main rooms, Couscous?’
‘You will never know,’ said Doucette.
‘It cost me an arm and a leg as it was, without having to leave an extra tip for the waiter to ignore the bell if it rang more than once.’
Doucette blushed. ‘I wonder if it is still the same?’
‘Apart from the candle-light, I doubt if it has changed since Victor Hugo used to take his children there,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Timelessness is what restaurants like Lapérouse are all about.’
‘I really meant the private rooms,’ said Doucette.
‘As far as I know there are some still left – the “Salon des Anges” and “La Belle Otéro”, but I certainly don’t intend finding out, if that’s what you mean.’
‘We had Poulet Docteur,’ said Doucette. ‘You told me Georges Simenon once used the setting for a Maigret story and the dish was named after that gourmet doctor friend of his in the books, although I have since heard it said the food is not like it was then.’
‘It has had its ups and downs over the years,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But they have a new chef and currently it is on its way up again. At least for once I shan’t have to write a report. I can sit back and enjoy the experience.’
‘I had better give a certain dog a bath if he’s going there,’ said Doucette. ‘He ought to be looking his best.’
‘There is a price to pay for everything in this world,’ called Monsieur Pamplemousse, as Pommes Frites, having pretended not to hear, slowly followed his mistress out of the room. He was wearing his gloomy expression.
Left to his own devices, Monsieur Pamplemousse began to wonder why the table had been booked in his name. And why insist on his taking Pommes Frites? Véronique must have her reasons.
For a moment he felt tempted to ring her. Then his thoughts turned to Chantal’s visit. Clearly, she had no idea he was now an ex-employee of Le Guide, but it was one more item to add to his growing list of interested parties.
The overall problem concerning Le Guide certainly wouldn’t go away. Véronique’s simple plea had gone home. To ignore it would be to go against all that he had held dear during the latter part of his life. The Director’s wife apart, there were so many others involved he couldn’t let them down.
Reaching for the phone, he dialled a number and waited. Jacques must be out on a job. Normally, his erstwhile colleague from the Paris Sûreté days took great pride in answering before the second ring and he was on the point of hanging up when his patience was rewarded.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ he said, once they were through with the preliminaries.
‘Could you possibly find out for me if you have anything on a man by the name of Péage …?’
‘When do you need it by?’ Jacques sounded harassed.
‘In an ideal world,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As soon as possible, if not before.’
The response was not unexpected.
‘Yes, I know you have a lot of paperwork to deal with.’
‘The more we get computerised,’ said Jacques, ‘the more paper we have to deal with. The paperless society is a myth.’
‘You think I don’t suffer that too?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, thinking of all the entries he had to make every time he went on one of his trips.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have a first name …
‘No … nor an address …
‘No … I don’t have a photograph of him either …’
He held the phone away from his ear.
‘Jacques … there are no haystacks in Paris … If it were that easy I would do it myself. Besides, it is your turn … Remember the business with Claude Chavignol?’
‘Do I ever?’ Mention of the apparent demise of France’s premier television chat show host before an audience of millions did the trick.
The two of them had been in at the kill, as it were, three if you included Pommes Frites, who had played a vital part in the whole affair.
‘I received a mention in dispatches for that,’ said Jacques proudly.
‘That’s more than we did,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘C’est la vie,’ said Jacques. ‘What’s it worth?’
‘Dejeuner … your choice of venue?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse knew the bait wasn’t necessary. He a
lso knew Jacques wouldn’t take advantage of such an offer, even if he did take it up. As always, it would simply be good to see each other again and catch up on the latest news; reminisce about their times together on the Food Fraud squad, seeking out those suspected of passing-off such things as Chinese truffles for the real thing. There was no end to people’s duplicity.
Jacques held a much more exalted position now, but they had never lost touch with each other. He was a true friend. The sort you don’t necessarily have to see. It was sufficient to know he was there when needed. No questions asked.
‘Anything else while I’m at it?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse threw a balloon into the air.
‘What do you think the odds are of the Director sitting next to a nun on a flight back from America? Not only that, but a nun who had been on a similar business seminar to one he had just been attending.’
‘I think,’ said Jacques, after a moment’s pause, ‘there are a number of factors involved. They need to be separated before discussing probabilities.
‘To start with, I imagine Monsieur Leclercq would be up front rather in the back of the plane. That means he would be travelling with other so-called “high flyers”; professional people who move in similar circles. In which case, the odds would be considerably longer.
‘To my mind, a much more realistic approach would be to find out how many nuns are flying worldwide at any given moment – I wouldn’t mind betting most of them use Alitalia anyway. They probably get special rates. Secondly, how many of them are likely to be travelling first class. I would stick my neck out and say not many.
‘That being so,’ he continued, ‘what are the chances of their ending up sitting next to the Director?’
‘You tell me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
It was like solving a difficult crossword puzzle clue. Reading it out loud suddenly made the answer seem obvious.
‘Zilch. Zéro. Rien de rien. Unless, of course, it had been fixed in advance.’
‘Exactement! That would be my guess too.’
‘I take it these things are connected,’ said Jacques. ‘You’ve got me interested, Aristide. I’ll ring you back as soon as possible. You can update me on it all, as and when. Over that lunch perhaps?’