by Michael Bond
‘You don’t mean …’ Monsieur Leclercq gazed at him. ‘Are you suggesting I may not have been Maria’s first beau? What do you think, Aristide? I respect your judgement in these matters.’
Privately, Monsieur Pamplemousse thought the Director most probably wasn’t even Maria’s fifty-first, but he decided not to labour the point.
‘You are right about the photographs,’ he said. ‘I think she knew exactly what she was doing. I suspect the whole thing must have been part of a plan. As for phoning your wife, it had nothing to do with her memory; she had only to press the appropriate key to recall the last number you had dialled yourself.
‘If you really want my opinion,’ he said, ‘I suggest Maria is no more of a nun than I am. She is, as my old mother would have said, “No better than she should be”.’
‘I always thought such girls were supposed to wear a number,’ said the Director.
‘That was in Maupassant’s time,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The practice died out over one hundred and fifty years ago. Had she been wearing a number today it would be like the ducks consumed at the Tour d’Argent – well into the millions.’
‘Ah, I knew I had read it somewhere,’ said Monsieur Leclercq vaguely.
‘By all accounts,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘Maupassant was something of a sexual athlete and took little account of such mundane matters. It is little wonder he died of syphilis.’
Monsieur Leclercq went a paler shade of white. ‘Do you think I ought to see matron, Aristide?’
‘Only you can answer that question, monsieur.’
‘What am I to do, Aristide?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq, hastily changing the subject.
‘Even now, I cannot bring myself to think of Maria as a wholly bad egg. She may be a trifle over-sexed, but that is simply the way she is. As you well know, Pamplemousse, some people are like that. They cannot help themselves. They are born that way.
‘If she has a fault, it is that she is always borrowing my mobile, but since she has been with me she has made some very sound suggestions.
‘It was she who suggested we tighten our security. Rambaud is a good man, but hardly on the cutting edge of what is required in today’s world of high security. He has much in common with those superannuated usherettes one comes across in New York theatres who seem to go on and on, long past their “sell by” date. We live in troubled times and it wouldn’t take much to overpower him. That being so, I have put him on paid leave for the time being.’
‘And the present incumbent?’
‘Bourdel? He came with the highest recommendation. Maria saw to that. I venture to think BRINKS wouldn’t have employed him otherwise.
‘To take an expression that I believe is in common usage by members of your erstwhile occupation, Maria must be nobbled before it is too late.’
‘Are you suggesting I should lean on her, monsieur?’
‘I have no idea what the technical term is, Aristide,’ said the Director, ‘but if it means what I think it means, then by all means, go ahead.’
‘From all I have seen and heard of her,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, casting his mind over the previous evening’s happenings, ‘leaning on her is the last thing I would wish to do.’
‘In that case, can you not find someone who will? You must still have contacts from the old days. People who are versed in such matters. It needs a person of discretion.’
‘The two qualities don’t always go hand in hand, I am afraid,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He tried floating an idea in the air. With luck, it might kill two birds with one stone.
‘If you have something of that nature in mind, monsieur, could you not make use of your wife’s Uncle Caputo in Italy? The one with the Mafia connections? He owes me one, as the saying has it. If you remember, I rescued his daughter when she was in Paris.’
‘I think not,’ said the Director. ‘The only connection Chantal’s uncle has with the catering business is that of extracting protection money from innocent restaurateurs who have nothing to fear in the first place. He derives a great deal of his income from such activities. He thinks nothing of going into a restaurant and, after admiring the china, saying wouldn’t it be a pity if it all got smashed, suggesting they should take out some kind of insurance policy. The last time I mentioned a restaurant to him, thinking he might enjoy the food, all he said was: “You want it torched? Just say the word.”
‘I live in constant fear that his name might one day be connected to Le Guide. Sales in Italy would plummet.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had a momentary vision of there being a symbol in Le Guide saying in effect: “Torched by Uncle Caputo”, but he kept it to himself.
‘Having said that,’ continued the Director, ‘there is no reading his mind. For all his brash ways there is a thoughtful side to him. Only the other day he rang me to ask what size shoes I wear. I told him I have no idea. I leave such matters to my chausseur.’
‘I think that was the best possible answer, monsieur.’
‘Answers should fit the case, Aristide’ said the Director. ‘In the case we are discussing now there is only one possible answer. I need both you and Pommes Frites, and I need you as I have never needed anyone before. Now that you are, so to speak, officially persona non grata in your role as an inspector, I am in a position to offer you your old job back.’
‘My old job, monsieur?’
‘Head of Security for Le Guide. No one need suspect. You will be able to work undercover. I hardly need tell you how much depends on your success.’
‘If I were to stay,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and despite everything, will Pommes Frites be reinstated?’
‘If you are successful, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘There is absolutely no question on that score.
‘With that in mind, and to guard against all eventualities, I have sought legal advice. My understanding is that the ultimate fall-back position would be to have unassailable evidence regarding his culinary qualifications and judgement.
‘The precedent in law is a cochon d’Inde, which was used by a well-known frozen food company to inspect vegetables shipped in from oversees. Apparently a guinea-pig’s instinct for sniffing out those that have been tainted with insecticides or some other substance is second to none. Almost one hundred per cent perfect.’
‘Almost, monsieur?’
‘Someone infiltrated some explosive material into a consignment of baby sweetcorn grown in Cambodia. One nibble and that was that. We wouldn’t want a similar thing to happen to Pommes Frites.’
‘I think I can safely safe say that it won’t,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As you know, he was sniffer dog of his year when he was at Police College. Recognising explosives is one of his specialities.’
‘A tasting has been arranged for tomorrow at Le Guide’s headquarters. I take it he won’t object to being blindfolded?’
‘Is that wise, monsieur?’
‘Wisdom doesn’t necessarily enter into legal arguments, Pamplemousse. More often than not, those who can afford the best lawyers win the day, and the simple answer in this case is that blindfolding all those taking part might be one of their requirements.’
Monsieur Leclercq looked at his watch and then made ready to leave.
‘I had better not overstretch my meter maid’s stock of good will,’ he said.
Monsieur Pamplemousse watched as the Director’s car accelerated away from its parking place on the pedestrian crossing just outside the entrance to the Luxembourg Gardens and turned right into rue Vavin before disappearing in the direction of Le Guide’s offices. No doubt he would be partaking of a Roullet Très Hors d’Age cognac before starting work. He certainly looked in need of one.
What was it the fat one in the old Laurel and Hardy films used to say when things reached a crisis point? ‘Here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.’ Or was it the thin one saying it to Olly? He must check with Glandier when he got the chance, otherwise it was the sort of trivial
matter that could keep you awake half the night, and he had enough on his mind already.
He sighed inwardly as he opened the door to his own car a little further down the road.
It was all right for some. Why did he always say oui to these things?
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s momentary irritation was echoed by the 2CV’s suspension as Pommes Frites, blissfully unaware of his master’s problems, clambered over the back of the passenger seat and made himself comfortable; a process that entailed several complete 360-degree turns before he was completely satisfied.
Having waited until he was comfortably settled, Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to set off when his phone rang.
‘Your bird,’ said Jacques, ‘is English by birth. English mother and a Serbo-Croat father, and she’s a caravelle.’
‘Comment?’
‘You’ve been out of the business for too long. You know … like an entranneuse specialises in working the bars, and a michetonneuse works café terraces, so a caravelle hangs around airports, waylaying lonely men, preferably high fliers first off the planes with their cabin bags on wheels. You can spot them a kilometre away.’
‘You have been quick.’
‘You gave me all that was needed,’ said Jacques. ‘As soon as I showed her picture to the vice squad it was a case of “say no more”.’
‘Is there a name for those who are airborne?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Not yet,’ said Jacques cheerfully. ‘Just give it time.
‘Anyway, it keeps them off the streets. Technically, it’s now against the law for a girl to stand on a street corner wearing a low-cut blouse, but it’ll take a lot more than that to put an end to the oldest profession in the world. Who’s going to enforce it anyway? Jump to the wrong conclusion and you could end up in trouble.
‘Maria perfected the art of picking on a likely-looking candidate and dropping something in their path – a handkerchief or a piece of paper, then turning her back as they drew near and bending down to pick it up. When her quarry rushed to her assistance and bent down too, their heads met, and …’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I gather it is even more effective at 10,000 metres.’
‘A young English-speaking French nun has a certain unique cachet with visitors from America; what they call arm candy for visiting tycoons. The phoney broken accent gets them every time. Maurice Chevalier in a skirt. If she scored less than one in twenty it was a bad day.’
‘Does she have a record?’
‘Not on paper. Let us just say she is “known about”. The few people down the line who could have done something about her have probably benefitted with a freebie or two, but she’s never been brought in if that’s what you mean.
‘Lately, she seems to have gone quiet. I can try and find out more if you like …’
‘I know where she is,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It’s what she is up to and who she is really working for that bothers me. It would be good to have more background info.’
Without going into too many details, he gave Jacques a brief outline. It produced a satisfactory whistle at the other end of the line.
‘It sounds to me like a case of history repeating itself,’ said Jacques. ‘It isn’t the first time your boss has been photographed in what’s known as a compromising situation. He does seem to make a habit of it.’
‘And it probably won’t be the last,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The world is increasingly divided into the takers of pictures and their subjects. Unfortunately, Monsieur Leclercq happens to be a natural-born subject, and every person who happens to own a digital camera automatically fancies himself or herself as a member of the paparazzi.’
‘Give me the good old days and the maisons des tolerance,’ said Jacques. ‘At least you knew where you stood then. And it was considered much more respectable. Any knowledgeable visitor to Paris wanting a bit of extra mural excitement would ask a taxi driver to take them to 31 Boulevard Edgar Quinet. British Royals, turning up incognito, simply said: “Take me to the Sphinx.”’
Jacques was onto his favourite subject.
‘Did you know one of the main investors was a bank? In many ways the Sphinx was ahead of its time; a model employer. The rooms had air conditioning. The girls enjoyed three weeks holiday on the Riviera every year. And they do say it had a wonderful wine list.’
‘I wasn’t around then,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly. ‘Neither was Maria.’
‘Touché! But if you ask me, whoever is behind it all has your boss by what les Anglais aptly call “the short and curlies”. I take it all this is strictly entre-nous …’
‘Right in one.’
‘I daresay we could have her picked up …’
‘I think that could be a big mistake.’
‘In that case, if you want to find out more about her background, why not get in touch with your English friend. What’s his name? Pickering? It could be quicker in the long run. And safer, if you know what I mean. It’ll save us finding reasons for doing it and the less people who know about it the better.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the options for a moment. Jacques was right. It really was a classic case of what Mr Pickering would have called ‘having someone by the short and curlies.’ The French equivalent – avoir quelqu’un à sa merci – didn’t have the same down-to-earth ring to it. He wouldn’t dare say it to the Director’s face, but as Pickering was fond of pointing out; French was the language of the ruling classes, whereas English was the language of the working classes.
‘Anything else while I’m at it?’ Jacques broke into his thoughts.
‘Do you have any contacts at BRINKS, the security people?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘What do you need to know?’
‘I am interested in one of their employees. A certain Bourdel … Paul Bourdel.’
‘What’s it worth?’ Jacques’ response was guarded.
‘I’ll let you choose the wine when we have that lunch,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Ciao,’ said Jacques.
Mr Pickering was in a chatty mood when he answered the phone. Because of the slightly mysterious nature of his calling; a grey area to do with National security and therefore not up for discussion, he cropped up in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s life from time to time, and over the years they had struck up a warm friendship. It took a lot to faze him.
‘How’s the weather?’ he asked.
‘Springlike,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘It’s raining cats and dogs here,’ said Mr Pickering gloomily. ‘Still, mustn’t grumble. It’s good for the garden.
‘Tell me, what did you have for breakfast this morning?’
‘The usual, I’m afraid …’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Croissant … brioche au sucre …’
‘Both still warm from the first baking of the day, I imagine …’
‘Naturally … Jus d’orange – freshly squeezed. Café.’
‘Ah, how I envy you. On the other hand, I shouldn’t complain; there is a dreadfully depressing sameness about breakfasts all over the world. It’s just that in England we lean towards cereals. There is a kind of holier-than-thou air about them; untouched by human hand from beginning to end, including my own, I have to admit. It is the packaging I object to most of all. Everyone looks so infernally cheerful. Then there is all the wording on the boxes saying how much good it will be doing you, although I have read somewhere there is as much nutritional value in the cardboard as there is in the contents.
‘That apart, I can’t stand the breakfast table being littered with them. It is a very bad start to the day. Mrs Pickering is thinking of knitting some covers. Anyway, how can I help you?’
‘What do you know about prostitutes?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘As far as I am aware, there aren’t many in our part of the world,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘Before we moved here, I’m told there used to be a certain amount of hanky-panky going on at weekends dur
ing the hot weather; occasional barbeque parties where the men threw their car keys into the swimming pool at the stroke of midnight. Then the ladies would dive in and fight for possession. That seems to have gone out of fashion.
‘Nowadays the women just laugh and say “fetch them yourself”. Not that we ever took part in that kind of thing, of course,’ he added hastily. ‘Mrs Pickering has breathing problems if she stays under water for too long.’
‘I mean working prostitutes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I am interested in one in particular. She was born in the UK.’
‘Ah, that may take a little longer,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘When would you like to know?’
‘Tomorrow will do,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Hold on a moment,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘I’ll just turn the radio down.’
The call over, Monsieur Pamplemousse dialled another number. It was picked up almost at once. He was wrong about Martine Borel. Not only was she still at the same address, she recognised his voice instantly.
‘Caller identification,’ she said briefly, in response to his congratulations.
‘I have a problem,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, masking his disappointment. ‘Or, perhaps I should say, we have a problem.’
‘You mean … similar to the last one?’
‘Not dissimilar. It would be good to see you. Soon, if that is at all as possible.’
There was a moment’s pause followed by the sound of pages being turned.
‘Today and tomorrow are not good, unless … how are your evenings?’
‘In a word,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘free.’
‘In that case,’ said Martine, ‘you could join me in an experiment … gigot de sept heures. They say that after seven hours the lamb is tender enough to be eaten with a spoon. If we make it eight o’clock this evening it will have been cooking for ten.’
With memories of her pot-au-feu still fresh in his mind, it was an offer too good to refuse.
‘Only if you will allow me to bring the wine,’ he said. Les Caves Auge in the Boulevard Haussmann, Paris’s oldest wine shop, was on his way home. A return visit was indicated.