Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (12 page)

‘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 also 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?’

‘
Ciao
.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the handset, consulted his notebook again, then picked up the receiver and, on the off-chance, dialled another number. This time he drew a blank.

‘Promise you won’t answer the door if anyone calls,’ he said, when he kissed Doucette goodbye that evening.

‘You take good care too,’ said Doucette. She slipped a small object into his trouser pocket. ‘And while you are there, see if you can take a few pictures for old time’s sake. You might not get another chance.’

Feeling in his pocket, Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised the Director’s latest toy, a sleek, all-black Leica C-Lux2 digital camera; the latest in a long line of possible replacements for the Leica R4 35-millimetre camera, used for archive recording purposes by staff while on their travels. Apart from the initial expense, it was the latest manifestation of his cost-cutting exercises. The annual saving on film alone would be enormous, but for some years the camera industry had kept one step ahead of him. No sooner had he reached a decision, than something new and better came along.

As had been the case at various times over the years, Monsieur Pamplemousse had been entrusted with delivering a report on its usefulness.

Giving Doucette a final hug, he waited outside the door until he heard the bolt and chain being put into place.

She hadn’t meant it that way, but the phrase ‘might not get another chance’ brought home to him as nothing else would have done the fact that one shouldn’t take things for granted. Nothing in this life was forever. For years now,
Le Guide
’s issue case, full of the latest equipment to cope with any emergency, had gone everywhere with him. Now, as soon as he handed the camera in, as hand it in he must, he would become an ex-employee, out in the cold, hard world. At least, having refused to part with his old Citroën rather than use a company car, he wouldn’t be without transport.

As for the camera; he would have to start getting used to his old Voigtlander again.

The realisation was compounded some twenty minutes or so later when he was leading the way along the Quai des Grands-Augustins. Mulling over the future, he was caught in the momentary glare of a flash gun.

A couple hovering outside Lapérouse were engaged in a slight altercation.

‘OK. So, how about
you
taking it next time?’ said the woman. ‘This camera is so old I’m on my second shoulder strap.’

There was another flash as the man took over.

‘
Excusez
-
moi
.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse edged past them and made his way inside, quickly announcing
his presence before the couple beat him to it.

Registering the barest flicker of surprise when she saw Pommes Frites, the receptionist took his coat, summoned an underling to relieve her of it and deal with the other new arrivals, then led the way up a flight of stairs.

As they turned the first corner he caught sight of the American woman giving her husband a nudge and, camera raised, pointing towards Pommes Frites. Clearly, her worst fears were about to be realised; or her wildest expectations. Whichever, shoulder strap or no shoulder strap, another photo was added to her store of memories.

Expecting to turn left at the top of the stairs into one of the larger salons facing the Seine, Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself entering a corridor to the right instead.

‘The Otéro, monsieur,’ said the girl, motioning him through an open door to the first of a series of small rooms. ‘
Bon
appetit
.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘
Absolument
, monsieur!’ Looking as near to being offended as decorum allowed, she signalled their arrival to an assistant
maître
d
’ hovering nearby. ‘I took the booking myself.’

Following them into the room, the man eyed Pommes Frites. ‘Would monsieur’s guest like still or sparkling water?’

‘My dog,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘prefers Chateldon.’ He could have added, along with Louis
XIV and serious wine tasters everywhere on account of its purity. It was his usual test. A bonus point if they had it, a means of establishing a certain measure of ascendancy at the outset if they didn’t.

‘Of course, monsieur.’

‘My main guest,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse pointedly, ‘has yet to arrive.’

‘
Oui
, monsieur.’ The assistant
maître
d
’, who looked as though he had seen it all over the years, bowed and withdrew.

Left to his own devices, Monsieur Pamplemousse took out his camera and seized the opportunity to satisfy Doucette’s wishes by taking a few pictures for old time’s sake; he might not get the chance later.

To say the room was small was putting it mildly. Not surprisingly, Pommes Frites was having trouble finding enough space in which to lie down.

The light from the chandelier wasn’t exactly dazzling. Doucette would have been disappointed with the rather too modern bulbs hanging at a rakish angle. Programming the camera’s built-in flash facility, he set to work.

The circular table in the middle, with its two place settings, more than filled the frame.

The upper half of the walls, decorated with ancient
trompe
l’oeil
frescoes in the style of Boucher and Watteau, made satisfactory shots, as did the ornamental carvings on the bottom section. To his left, beyond a curtained window, a small chaise longue, the cushions covered in matching deep red velvet, added
a welcome touch of colour, but getting a satisfactory shot of the large mirror above it without seeing his own reflection wasn’t so easy.

A well-worn brass plate to one side bore the simple inscription ‘Curnonsky’, making it one of twenty-seven distributed among leading Paris restaurants by fellow gastronomes on the occasion of the self-styled ‘Prince of Gastronomes’ eightieth birthday. Attached to the best seats, it meant that for the rest of his life he only had to reach for his telephone to be guaranteed a place and a free meal.

He wondered how the author of the 32-volumed
La
France
Gastronomique
would have viewed Làperouse now. Chefs had come and gone, but like the big wheel, as one person alighted another got on. He doubted if the restaurant itself had changed a great deal.

Originally built to serve the needs of chicken farmers in need of somewhere to carry out their business transactions, the rooms must have been equally successful in later years when put to other uses if the scratchings on the mirror were anything to go by.