Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution

by Michael Bond

  ‘Those rules have been added to over the years, eventually covering such mundane matters as the time it should take a concierge to clean each square metre of a courtyard, through the shape and constituents of a standard baguette, down to the size of a baby’s bottle.

  ‘With the passage of time, some have been discarded along the way in order to take account of the change in lifestyles. For example, once upon a time bars licensed to sell tobacco had to display a stylised red carrot outside their premises.’

  Maria stared at him. ‘People used to smoke carrots too?’

  ‘No,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse patiently. ‘It was because they always kept a fresh one inside their storage bins to stop the tobacco drying out.’

  Maria snuggled up against him. ‘I do love a man who knows about these things. But why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘Because,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘whatever it is you are up to, you won’t get away with it. Many of the rules and regulations are openly ignored. However, when it comes to the crunch, if the authorities want to get you, they will. It may be something relatively small – like dressing up as a nun – but get you they will. There is no escape.’

  ‘Ladies first,’ said Maria. ‘You still haven’t answered my question. If you are no longer working for Le Guide, who are you working for?’

  ‘Let us just say that for the time being I am acting on behalf of Monsieur Leclercq. It is a personal matter.’

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Leclercq!’ said Maria dreamily. ‘He has only to look at me and my inside turns to water …’ She put down her knife and fork, edged closer, and placed a hand on his knee. ‘Some men have that effect on me.’

  Ever alive to passing nuances, Pommes Frites looked up from his minced steak, assumed his ‘here we go again’ expression, and gave vent to a deep sigh as he gnawed away at the bone.

  ‘There, there,’ called Maria. ‘I shan’t bite.’

  ‘Let us hope he feels the same way about you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He can be very protective of me when the spirit takes him and he may be sharpening his fangs.’

  ‘He doesn’t look very fierce,’ said Maria.

  ‘Don’t let that fool you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is a question of territories. In his book, treading on other people’s is always a dangerous occupation.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘As I say, I am looking after Monsieur Leclercq’s interests and from all I have seen and heard it seems to me that just lately you have been trespassing a great deal in matters that don’t concern you.’

  ‘But they do concern me,’ simpered Maria. ‘Henri needs looking after.’

  ‘Henri? I wasn’t aware that you and he were on first-name terms.’

  ‘Well, now you know.’ Maria looked him straight in the eye. ‘It was love at first sight, and I would be very concerned if anything came between us. For instance, I don’t know what I would do if his wife got to hear about it. I know he is terrified I might blurt it out one day and spoil everything, but I also know if things came to what you call the crunch, I wouldn’t be able to help myself.’

  ‘And you think she would believe you?’

  ‘She would if she saw all the things Henri has been buying me,’ said Maria. She held up her left hand. ‘This, for instance, and all that goes with it. I have the receipts. A girl has to protect herself these days.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at the ring. The stone itself looked as though it wouldn’t have been out of place on the business end of a knuckle-duster. It must have cost the Director an arm and a leg.

  ‘It is very big,’ he admitted, for want of anything better to say.

  ‘Now do you understand what I mean?’ said Maria triumphantly.

  ‘Nothing changes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He pointed to the mirror.

  ‘You see all those scratches you complained about just now? They were made by girls who were, as you put it, protecting their interests. In this restaurant’s heyday they used to scratch messages on the glass to make sure any diamonds given to them by their paramours were real.’

  ‘You mean … like this?’ Before he could stop her, Maria reached up, pressed the ring and its stone hard against the mirror, and drew a wide arc across its surface.

  It was probably intended as a flamboyant, devil-may-care gesture, but the effect was so unexpected it was safe to say no one in the room, least of all Maria, was in any way prepared for it.

  Filmed on a high speed camera and played back in slow motion it might have been possible to analyse the exact sequence of events, but in real time it seemed as though everything happened at once.

  The shrill sound of protesting glass gave way almost immediately to an even higher pitched shriek from Maria; the combination of the two resulting in a veritable stream of harmonics.

  Musically, a persistent bleeping noise provided a rhythmic beat, whilst a loud howl from Pommes Frites as the stone became detached from its mounting and broke into several pieces, the largest of which landed in his steak, produced a satisfactory coda.

  As the sounds died away, the door burst open and a sea of faces appeared.

  ‘It is nothing,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘C’est normale.’

  Removing the key finder from his jacket pocket, he held it up for all to see. ‘Something must have set it off. It happens from time to time.

  ‘Much more serious is the fact that there is a foreign body in my dog’s steak haché.’

  ‘A foreign body!’ Entering the room, the assistant maître d’ drew himself up to his full height. ‘Impossible!’

  Pommes Frites, having taken a closer look at his dinner, gave another howl; this time in support of his master.

  ‘Asseyez-vous,’ commanded Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Immédiatement!’

  He bent down and removed the offending object from Pommes Frites’ bowl.

  Holding it aloft between thumb and forefinger, he indicated the reflected light from the chandelier.

  ‘If that isn’t glass,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what is!’

  For a brief moment there was the kind of silence you could have cut with a knife.

  ‘Glass!’ repeated the assistant maître d’.

  ‘Glass!’ echoed Maria. ‘What do you mean, glass?’

  ‘Glass,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is a transparent solid made from a fused mixture of oxides. It is useful in many ways, but being highly brittle it should never be confused with diamonds.’

  Maria glared at him, grabbed her handbag, and made for the door. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I need to make a call.’

  ‘Small pieces of glass,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, turning to the maître d’, ‘are also highly indigestible and not to be recommended when mixed in with any kind of food.’

  The maître d’ signalled to one of his underlings.

  ‘The matter will be attended to,’ he said, leaving no room for doubt that it would be. ‘In the meantime, you have my sincere apologies. I assure you, monsieur, it will not happen again.’

  Left to his own devices, Monsieur Pamplemousse took out his mobile and dialled a number.

  Doucette must have been in the kitchen, for it took her a while to answer. In the meantime, he guessed Maria was probably giving the Director hell.

  ‘Doucette, please do me a favour. As you know, I no longer have a watch, but could you give it a few minutes, then call me back?

  ‘No, Couscous … everything is fine …

  ‘There is nothing whatsoever to worry about …’ He was suddenly reminded of Monsieur Leclercq’s telephone conversation on the plane.

  ‘I will explain when I see you,’ he added.

  ‘Oui … some of the left-over prawn dish will be fine …’

  While he was talking, a hitherto unseen waiter carrying a bowl of freshly minced steak for Pommes Frites came and went. Hearing raised voices in the corridor outside, Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily cut the call and put the phone down on the floor beside his chair.
r />   He barely had time to relax before Maria reappeared.

  From the look on her face, he wondered if she was on drugs and had taken a quick fix. Her eyes didn’t show any sign of dilation. If anything, they looked more purposeful, so he dismissed the idea.

  Given that she also appeared to have renewed her lip-gloss in no uncertain manner, he felt more than ever glad he’d made the call home.

  ‘No luck?’

  She gave a noncommittal grunt.

  ‘Bastard!’

  Holding the ring aloft as though it were some eyeless archaeological relic newly unearthed from an Egyptian tomb, she collapsed onto the banquette.

  ‘They do say love conquers all.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to offer a crumb of comfort.

  ‘Believe that,’ said Maria bitterly, ‘and you’ll believe anything! Just wait until I see him. Cheapskate!’

  She looked as though she was about to launch into a long tirade, when she spotted something on the carpet.

  ‘There’s another piece of my so-called precious gem! Mind your dog doesn’t tread on it …’

  Seeing Pommes Frites prick up his ears, Monsieur Pamplemousse joined her in making a dive for the spot.

  From his vantage point on the other side of the table Pommes Frites half rose, then changed his mind. It was clearly a case of an immovable object about to meet up with an irresistible force. Had he been given to making bets he would have put his money on his master any day of the week. Weight for weight, the girl didn’t stand a chance.

  But then, being an animal of noble and upright disposition, the prospect of foul play raising its ugly head didn’t for one moment enter his mind. It wasn’t until he saw a silk-clad leg shoot out that he had second thoughts, but by then it was too late.

  He winced inwardly as heads collided, and for a fraction of a second both parties hovered in mid-air before falling to the ground.

  Ending up gasping for breath, the girl on top of him and with a ringing noise in his head, Monsieur Pamplemousse was mortified. All too late, he realised he had become a victim of one of the oldest tricks in the world.

  For the second time that day he felt arms encircling him; the main difference this time being that the hands that went with them were hardly still for a moment. It was worse, far worse than being frisked at an airport during a major security alert.

  Gradually coming to, he realised the ringing was coming from a telephone. Reaching out with a free hand, he groped around blindly for his mobile and, as he did so, made contact with … He froze … Monsieur Leclercq’s disastrous experience on the plane still fresh in his mind, he found himself momentarily wondering if it was the Director’s phone rather than his, and if that there were the case, was it still in place? If so …

  Opening his eyes, he saw to his relief Pommes Frites standing alongside him, the mobile in his mouth.

  ‘Alors!’ Giving his ever-resourceful friend and mentor a welcome pat, he relieved him of the handset and pressed the receive button.

  ‘Is everything all right, Aristide?’ Doucette’s voice came through loud and clear.

  ‘You asked me to call you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt the body on top of him stiffen.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ he hissed. ‘You must be imagining things.’

  ‘Imagining things! What do you mean?’ Doucette sounded aggrieved.

  ‘I think you must have been having one of your attacks, Couscous …’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Attacks! What attacks?’

  ‘The … ones … you … are … prone … to …’ he tried to spell it out as clearly as possible, hoping the message would get through. ‘Don’t move, I will be with you as soon as possible …’

  Pressing the off button, he struggled without success to push Maria to one side, and he was still trying when the phone rang again.

  ‘You sound out of breath, Aristide,’ said Doucette. ‘Why are you breathing so heavily?’

  ‘It is Pommes Frites, Doucette,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You know how he hates the heat and it is very warm in here. We are in one of the small rooms … listen …’

  Retrieving his other hand, he cupped both of them over the mouthpiece and went into his dog on heat routine.

  ‘It may be very popular at staff parties, Aristide,’ said Doucette, ‘particularly near the end of the evening when everyone has had too much to drink, but …’

  ‘You should get yourself a headset and leave your hands free,’ said Maria. ‘Be a multi-tasker like me.’

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Doucette

  ‘It is a girl at the next table …’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘She is a little the worse for drink, and …’

  ‘But I thought you said you are in a small room …’

  ‘One of the smaller rooms …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse paused as he heard a knock at the door. ‘Listen, Coucous,’ he said desperately. ‘I have to go. Don’t ring me … I will ring you.

  ‘I am afraid my guest has been taken ill,’ he said lamely, as the maître d’ entered. ‘In the circumstances …’

  ‘Of course, monsieur …’ there was a moment’s hesitation, accompanied by a barely discernable raising of an eyebrow. ‘Would monsieur prefer a helping hand, a doctor, or l’addition?’

  ‘L’addition, s’il vous plait,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As quickly as possible.’

  Heading back home, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned right onto the Pont du Carousel, narrowly missing a couple of pedestrians who were trying to beat the lights. He realised with a shock he was in auto-drive. He had no recollection whatsoever of the first few minutes of his journey and the drive along the fast moving race track known as the Quai des Grands-Augustins.

  Who could have blamed him after all that had happened? In the cold light of day, a judge for one.

  With that in mind, he slowed down rather than accelerating for the lights on the far side of the river in case they changed to red. A driver behind him, taken by surprise, leant on his horn.

  There was a brief exchange of mimed unpleasantries as the man overtook him. There being no justice in this world, he made the lights before they changed, Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t.

  To say Maria was a fast worker would have been the understatement of all times.

  It was little wonder Véronique and Madame Grante were worried. How Monsieur Leclercq could possibly have given her a job – and as an adviser, no less – was beyond him.

  In the conversational stakes she was probably more than a match for his boss.

  He could picture it all: against a girl who doubtless did most of her thinking on her back rather than on her feet – a grande horizontale in the making if ever he’d seen one – Monsieur Leclercq wouldn’t have stood a chance, but even so …

  Going over the evening’s events, he wondered if he was right to have thrown in the towel like he did, but clearly Maria had been of like mind. Following the last debacle with Doucette’s phone call, she couldn’t wait for it to be over.

  One thing was certain. Something must be done about the matter, and quickly.

  Taking a right turn in the Avenue de l’Opera, he spotted a gap in the line of parked cars and pulled in. It was time he phoned Jacques again and put him straight.

  He got through almost immediately. From the background noise it sounded as though he was on the Metro.

  ‘It’s a girl!’

  ‘Congratulations! How much did it weigh?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse held the receiver away from his head. He was in no mood for jokes, especially ones in poor taste.

  ‘The one going by the name of Péage. As it happens, I can let you have her picture.’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’ Jacques did his best to sound contrite.

  ‘I will do a printout and drop it in for you first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Ciao. Dormez-bien.’

  ‘You must be joking,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Feeling in a slightly better mood, he made the rest of the jo
urney home in record time, and having put his car to bed for the night, took Pommes Frites for a quick walk around the block.

  As he stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor he felt for his keys.

  ‘Merde!’

  What with one thing and another, he must have left them in the restaurant. Unless it was the proverbial third thing, there shouldn’t be any problem getting them back. For the time being, though, it was the final ignominy, having to phone Doucette again in order to be let into his own apartment.

  ‘You told me on no account to answer the door,’ said Doucette, when she opened it.

  ‘I didn’t bargain on losing my keys, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘What has been going on, Aristide? I couldn’t make head nor tail of it over the phone. First you told me one thing, then another.’

  ‘It was,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘a constantly changing scenario. The problem is much bigger than I thought. And more complicated. I was dining with Monsieur Leclercq’s new adviser.’

  Switching his camera to ‘playback’, he showed Doucette the picture on the screen.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘I do see what you mean.’

  ‘She has to be working for someone else,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But for the time being, for whatever reason, she seems to have the Director wrapped round her little finger. Just as she had herself wrapped round me earlier on.’

  ‘How very embarrassing,’ said Doucette.

  ‘I think,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that over the years they have probably seen most things at Lapérouse. Nothing surprises them any more.’

  Over the warmed-up remains of the prawn dish he gave Doucette an edited version of the evening’s events.

  ‘You are always saying Monsieur Leclercq shouldn’t be allowed out by himself,’ said Doucette when he was through. ‘It sounds to me as though he isn’t the only one.’

  ‘That was different,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gruffly.

  ‘Talking of the Director,’ said Doucette, ‘He phoned while you were out. He was speaking from home and it sounded urgent. He said, could you ring him back?’

  ‘Aristide …’ the Director’s voice sounded muffled, as though he had his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘We are in an Estragon situation.’