Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (11 page)

The communicating door opened and Madame Grante entered the room complete with cage.

‘I couldn’t help overhearing,’ she said, coming towards them. ‘You are a very kind man, Monsieur Pamplemousse.’

Clearly, a thaw had set in, and for the briefest of moments he thought she was about to embrace him, cage and all, but once again the sudden movement caught Jo Jo off balance.

‘
Bonne journée
,’ came a gruff voice. ‘
Bonne journée
.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse beamed his goodnights towards the speaker. Jo Jo might not be the greatest conversationalist in the world, but give him his due, despite living in a world dominated by millet sprays and iodine nibbles; he did have impeccable timing.

‘I will await your call,’ he said to Véronique. 

The next day, having taken advantage of his new found freedom, Monsieur Pamplemousse arrived back rather later than usual from his morning walk with

Pommes Frites. He was about to slip his key into the lock on the apartment door, when he paused. Pommes Frites looked equally surprised when he heard an unexpected voice coming from the other side of it, and he eyed his master quizzically.

‘Guess who’s here,’ said Doucette, as they entered the apartment. ‘Madame Leclercq!’

‘Please, I must insist,’ said the Director’s wife, ‘do call me Chantal. I know your husband would prefer it that way.’

‘It has been a long time,’ said Doucette lamely.

‘All the more reason not to stand on ceremony, is that not so, Aristide?’

As Monsieur Pamplemousse drew near, Madame Leclercq held out her hand to be kissed. There was a flirtatious side to her that was never far from the surface, especially when she wanted something. Most people put it down to her Italian connections and a reputed early training for the world of opera, although there were those who said the latter was really only singing lessons and the term ‘opera’ a conceit on the part of her husband.

One thing was certain, the tiny hand Monsieur Pamplemousse encountered with his lips was far from frozen, nor was it withdrawn as quickly as it might have been; something he felt sure his wife could hardly have failed to register.

He wondered what the problem was this time.

‘I will go and put the coffee on,’ said Doucette tactfully.

‘Henri has got himself into a mess.’ Madame Leclercq wasted no time in getting down to brass tacks as soon as they were alone.

‘Has he really?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse guardedly.

‘Either that, or he is having an affair, but somehow I don’t think that is the reason. I suspect it has more to do with work; possibly even a mixture of both.’

‘It is a busy time of the year,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He has a great many things on his mind.’

Privately he agreed with her analysis. Having married into money, Monsieur Leclercq knew only
too well which side of his bread was buttered. That mattered a lot to him. He was hardly likely to risk it all on a brief flirtation.

‘It couldn’t have come at a worse time,’ said Chantal. ‘As you know, the local elections are coming up soon and he is in the running for the post of mayor in our village; something he has always coveted. It brings with it so many advantages, but the slightest whiff of scandal before he gets it …’

‘Perhaps it is a touch of
le demon de midi
?’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘I am sure it will all blow over.’

‘Men!’ said Chantal with feeling. ‘They blame everything on the mid-life crisis, as though there is absolutely nothing they can do about it! We women have our problems in that area too, you know.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse remained silent. Madame Leclercq’s must have arrived early, for he still remembered the occasion when she had played footsie with him under the table. It was during one of the Director’s annual staff parties at their summer residence near Deauville. At least, he had always assumed it was her foot. It had been hard to tell at the time because others had been at it too. In fact, the whole table ended up in a state of chaos following Pommes Frites’ discovery, while sitting beneath it, that pressing the odd toe with his paw in order to relieve the boredom produced some unexpected results.

From the way he was behaving now, sniffing Madame Leclercq’s bag on the floor beside her chair,
it looked as though he might be reliving the occasion.

‘What do you make of a husband who returns home with the end of his tie missing?’ asked Chantal.

Someone who is asking for trouble
, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Perhaps he shut it in his car door?’ he said out loud. ‘It is easily done.’

‘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 …’

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?’