by Michael Bond
‘The phrase I have in mind would be along the lines of: “L’homme qui pouvrait réprondre á la question est l’oncle de ma femme.” The literal English translation being: “The man who could answer the question is my wife’s uncle.”’
‘Doucette?’
‘No, monsieur …’ manfully, Monsieur Pamplemousse avoided saying ‘try again’. ‘I am referring to Madame Leclercq …’
The Director stared at him as light slowly dawned. ‘Chantal. You mean … Chantal’s Uncle Caputo?’
‘Exactement! I think, monsieur, your troubles are over.’
Monsieur Leclercq crossed to his cocktail cabinet. The Roullet Très Hors Age had been replaced by a bottle of Gosset Grande Réserve Champagne. Removing it from the ice bucket, he carefully poured two glasses.
‘Four hundred years in one family,’ he said. ‘Continuity, Aristide; that is what France is all about. I had Véronique prepare it in readiness to celebrate Pommes Frites’ victory in the tasting, which I had assumed to be a foregone conclusion. But if what you say is true, it is splendid news. Even more cause for celebration.’
He raised his glass.
‘I don’t know how you do it, Pamplemousse.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I wonder myself, although in this particular instance it is Uncle Caputo you should thank. My part was very minor.’
Thinking it over while he had been looking for Pommes Frites, he realised it was little wonder Dubois had plotted to get Madame Grante out of the way, along with anyone else who might remember him from his previous attempt to sabotage Le Guide; namely himself and Pommes Frites, who had literally sunk his teeth into him when he had tried to escape.
‘Dubois wanted to satisfy himself that I wasn’t a danger,’ he said. ‘To that end he acquired the photographs of me feeding Pommes Frites. At the same time he started sending threatening notes to Madame Grante, thus effectively removing the three most dangerous elements in his plan.
‘Strangely enough, although I was instrumental in having him sent away the last time, we never actually met face to face. I only knew him from a photograph Madame Grante had in her apartment. She was very smitten at the time.’
‘I do remember that,’ said the Director. ‘Poor lady. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’
‘The only exception,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is a woman whose pet budgerigar has been threatened with a fate worse than death.
‘Once she was gone it left the way clear for Maria to insist you get rid of Rambaud, and that in turn left the door open for Dubois to move in. I imagine when we open up the gatekeeper’s lodge we shall find a lot of interesting pieces of equipment.’
‘It all sounds immensely complicated.’
‘Complicated, and yet remarkably simple,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘During the time Dubois was in prison the idea must have taken root in his mind and begun to grow like a cancer.
‘Revenge is sweet, and there are all manner of other ways he could have brought it about. But having tried once and failed, he wanted to make absolutely certain it would work this time, with the added bonus of his being on the spot to witness this whole edifice collapse, taking everyone with it.
‘I suspect that when the beef is examined, you will find it contains poison. It must have been a desperate last move on his part, and when that failed he knew the game was up.’
Monsieur Leclercq opened a desk drawer. ‘I gather from Véronique that you have lost your watch, Aristide. I trust you will accept this replacement as a small token of my, and indeed Le Guide’s, gratitude and appreciation.
‘I fear it is not of French origin. Cupillard Riéme are no longer with us; a sign of the times, if you will excuse the pun. It is manufactured in Switzerland by a company called Jean d’Eve, but I am assured it keeps excellent time nonetheless.
‘It is a pity Véronique isn’t here to join in the celebration,’ he continued, waving aside Monsieur Pamplemousse’s thanks. ‘She asked if she could leave early. Something to do with being locked out of her own apartment on account of forgetting a password. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.’
* * *
As they left the building, Monsieur Pamplemousse was in the act of pocketing the watch case when he felt a familiar shape and realised his Cross pen had been there all the time. It must have slipped down inside the lining.
All of a sudden, everything seemed right with the world again. Taking out his mobile, he rang Doucette to tell her the coast was clear.
‘You may be back before me,’ he said. ‘I have to visit Véronique first. It sounds as though she needs me. She is unable to enter her apartment.
‘A locksmith …?
‘No, Couscous, it is more complicated than that. It has to do with champagne glasses being taller this year.
‘I will explain when I see you.’
Jacques rested his knife and fork and sat back. ‘I used to think,’ he said, ‘that as one grew older things would start to slow down, but the reverse is true. Whatever happened to November?’
‘Pommes Frites and I went back to the Auvergne,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Sadly, we missed out on Michel Bras. He was already closed for the winter.’
‘And December?’
‘Much the same. Except we spent Christmas with Doucette’s sister. No turkey, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Jacques.
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘Agathe tried a new version of it this time. She served tripes à la mode de Caen with jelly made from sparkling Cerdon wine and cranberries.’
‘And?’
‘Désastre! She burnt the jelly, would you believe?’
‘That can’t have been easy.’
‘Difficult, but clearly not impossible.’
‘Talking of disasters,’ said Jacques, ‘you know we found Dubois’s car …’
‘I read something about it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I gather the wreckage was in a wood near Melun. Paradoxically, that is where my sister-in-law lives.’
‘It’s a small world.’
‘Burnt out, I gather. No trace of the driver. It didn’t say any more.’
‘What’s one burnt-out car these days?’ said Jacques. ‘It isn’t news any more.
Putting the pieces together again, the boffins found the brakes had been disconnected and the accelerator pedal tampered with so that it jammed down. I can’t imagine who would have done a thing like that, can you?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head.
‘It must have been one hell of a drive.’
‘Horrendous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but on the other hand, an extraordinary feat.’
‘He committed over three hundred and fifty traffic offences on the way,’ said Jacques. ‘Ignoring red lights, travelling the wrong way down one-way streets, you name it. If the extradition order is granted, which I very much doubt will happen; we will throw the book at him.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse paused over his soufflé Grand Marnier.
‘You know where he is?’
‘Your boss’s wife’s Uncle Caputo has taken him on as his personal driver,’ said
Jacques. ‘A bit ironical since he set out to eliminate him. But, as you once told me, he knows quality when he sees it. I can’t see Dubois ever bothering Le Guide again. It would be more than his life is worth. As it is, I gather his hair turned white overnight.’
They ate in silence for a moment or two while Monsieur Pamplemousse digested the information.
‘While you’ve been away,’ said Jacques, ‘I have been looking up pesticides.
According to the analyst, that stuff Dubois injected into Pommes Frites’ meat was Aldrin; it’s one of a group used against used against infestation by flies and mosquitoes … wireworms, caterpillars, that kind of thing.
‘It’s been banned in many parts of the world, but apparently your old gatekeeper has been using it for years; something to do with having caterpillars in his window box. He was
grumbling like mad that someone had been at the packet.’
‘I can picture it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Rambaud’s window box is his pride and joy.’
‘Taken by humans or other animals, Aldrin causes dizziness, vomiting, convulsions, respiratory failure. It would have been a nasty way to go.
‘What bothers me, is according to my information, it is completely odourless, so …’
‘… what made Pommes Frites reject the meat?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Bloodhounds are good at putting two and two together,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘My guess is he must have smelt the person who tampered with it. And that person had to be Dubois. He smelt a rat in more ways than one.’
‘Sorry I asked,’ said Jacques.
‘For a brief while, Pommes Frites’ future hung in the balance; mine too. But when it was discovered how much poison had been injected into the beef everyone changed their tune.’
‘A useful camarade to have about the house.’ Jacques gazed down at the recumbent form under the table.
‘He saved my life,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply.
‘That too,’ said Jacques. ‘I wonder what he would have done if he’d been human?’
‘Changed his butcher, I expect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Pommes Frites has a refreshingly uncomplicated approach to life. He sees things strictly in terms of black and white; right and wrong.’
‘As for Maria,’ said Jacques. ‘She seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. I take it you have heard nothing more from her?’
‘Well, yes and no,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Jacques downed his wine. ‘Come on, Aristide … out with it. Between friends and these four walls …’
By way of an answer, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed a small package from his pocket and placed it on the table.
‘Going back to Christmas,’ he said, ‘just before Twelfth night, a parcel containing a small cake arrived at Monsieur Leclercq’s office.’
‘Galette de Roi!’ Jacques made a face. ‘I know it’s traditional, but I can’t stand frangipane and it’s usually full of it. As for those little statue things people put inside them – I once nearly broke a tooth on one.’
‘Fèves,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I thought they were always slipped into the cake somewhere near the edge so that wouldn’t happen.’
‘So did I,’ said Jacques ruefully. ‘Blame the wife. Things weren’t too good back at the works in those days. Don’t say you’ve brought me a slice.’
‘Again, it’s a case of yes and no.’
Unwrapping the parcel, Monsieur Pamplemousse revealed the end of a tie. Inside it was a small porcelain figurine.
‘Monsieur Leclercq has entrusted me with this for the time being. He doesn’t want it left lying around in case it gets into the wrong hands. Madame Leclercq’s, par exemple.’
Jacques examined the object. ‘I can’t say I blame him.’ Lowering his voice, he looked around to make sure no one else was watching. ‘I don’t know about the girl who’s dressed up as a nun – she looks a pretty little thing, but the guy fumbling with her zip is the spitting image of your boss. I’ve seen porno fèves advertised on a website – Kama Sutra pigs … rabbits … that kind of thing, but this one beats them all. It looks as though it must have been specially made.’
‘Whoever sent it probably had a lot of photo references to help them,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘The parcel was postmarked Sicily. I strongly suspect Uncle Caputo has taken Maria on board as well. As I said earlier, he respects genuine talent when he sees it and he hates letting it go to waste.’
‘Our loss could be Sicily’s gain …’ said Jacques.
‘It is what Monsieur Leclercq calls an elegant solution.’
‘That depends where you are sitting,’ said Jacques. ‘Elegant, but hardly Kosher. All the same, it saves on paper-work …’
‘Lawyer’s fees too,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘At the end of the day, they are the only ones who grow fat out of other people’s misfortunes.’
Jacques pushed his chair way from the table. ‘Thanks for the meal. Some of us have to get back to work.’
‘All good things …’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As for this restaurant. It doesn’t know yet, so don’t breathe a word, but they are in line to receive a Stock Pot. This meal was by way of a final check-up, courtesy of Le Guide.’
‘I thought you said it was your treat.’
‘I didn’t say I was paying. I simply said you could choose the restaurant, and the wine, of course. Incidentally, I admire your choice: Beaune Clos de Roi from Tollot-Beaut was a perfect accompaniment to the boeuf en croute.’
‘You don’t want an assistant with a talent for this kind of thing, do you?’ asked Jacques. ‘Clean-living, able to carry your bags, grovel when required, fond of travel, not frightened of long hours …’
‘If you hear of anyone like that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘give me a ring. And thank you again for all your help. Keep the fève – you can change it for a free copy of Le Guide when it comes out.’
Calling for the bill, he waited until they were out in the street before reaching for his mobile. There was one other important call he had to make.
‘Congratulations,’ said Mr Pickering when he had finished. ‘Most satisfactory.
But if you don’t mind my saying so, it does sound a very French solution.’
‘With Italian overtones,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Let us not forget that. One should always give credit where credit is due.’
Glancing down as he said goodbye, he could have sworn Pommes Frites was smiling to himself, but then, he often did at the end of a case.
Read on for an extract from
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint,
the next book in Michael Bond’s
Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites series …
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint
MICHAEL BOND
CHAPTER ONE
Véronique put a finger to her lips before gently opening the door. ‘If I were you,’ she whispered, ‘I would keep it low key. We’re a bit edgy today …’
Murmuring his thanks, Monsieur Pamplemousse signalled Pommes Frites to follow on behind as they tiptoed past the Director’s secretary into the Holy of Holies.
Glancing quickly round the room, he seated himself in a chair standing ready and waiting opposite Monsieur Leclercq’s vast desk. Pommes Frites, meanwhile, hastened to make himself comfortable on the deep pile carpet at his feet.
Clearly, Véronique had not been exaggerating. All the signs suggested that if anything she was understating the situation.
Normally a model of sartorial elegance, the Head of France’s premier gastronomic guide looked in a sorry state; his Marcel Lassance tie hung loose around his neck, the jacket of his André Bardot suit was draped higgledy-piggledy over the back of a chair, and although one sleeve of the Eglé bespoke shirt was neatly rolled back above his elbow, the other looked as though it might have been involved in a close encounter with a lawnmower … perhaps while adjusting the blades, although that was highly improbable.
Unlike the past President of France, Monsieur Jacques Chirac, who was credited with having once operated a forklift truck in an American brewery following a spell at Harvard University, Monsieur Pamplemousse doubted if the Director had ever got his hands dirty in the whole of his life. The generally accepted opinion was that he probably laid out the ground rules at an early age; demonstrating clearly to all and sundry that even such mundane tasks as changing a typewriter ribbon were beyond his powers, making sure that letters dictated during the course of the day arrived without fail on his desk ready for signing at the appointed time that same afternoon. The licking of envelopes would have been someone else’s responsibility, thus allowing his taste buds to remain unsullied by close contact with gum mucilage.
Discretion being the better part of
valour, it was probably far better to hold his fire until a suitable moment arose. After what seemed like an eternity, and aware of a certain restiveness at his feet, he could stand it no longer.
‘You sent for us, Monsieur?’ he ventured.
‘Yes, yes, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director distantly. ‘But it was you I wished to have words with first of all.’
Pausing as he riffled through the pile of papers, he glanced pointedly at the figure on the floor.
‘Would you prefer it if Pommes Frites waited outside?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘No, no,’ said Monsieur Leclercq gruffly. ‘It’s just that … well, to put it bluntly, Aristide, you are rather earlier than I expected and I have important matters to discuss. My mind is in turmoil and it is hard to concentrate when your every move is subject to scrutiny by two pairs of eyes rather than one.’
Ever sensitive to the prevailing atmosphere, and sufficiently conversant with the use of certain key words, Pommes Frites settled down again and, with his tail at half-mast, pretended to busy himself with his ablutions, although clearly his heart wasn’t in it.
‘Your message sounded urgent,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That being the case, we came as quickly as we could. It just so happened the traffic lights were green all the way. Such a thing has never happened before.’
‘Aaah!’ His words fell on deaf ears as an exclamation from the Director indicated he had at long last found what he had been looking for.
He waved aloft a crumpled form between thumb and forefinger. ‘As you will doubtless remember, Pamplemousse, I recently issued a questionnaire to all members of staff.
‘I had in mind ascertaining their views on various matters of importance. It was all part of an exercise in reappraising our current position in this difficult world of ours. Running an operation the size of Le Guide is a costly exercise, and from time to time, in common with most large companies, we have to take stock of the most expensive item of all: namely, manpower. It was our accountants who first posed the question. Are we, they asked, always getting value for money from those who work in the field?’