Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (13 page)

That said, if it were simply a case of getting to know someone in peace and quiet, it was tailor made.

Looking round to his right he noticed a plastic bell-push fixed to the wall; presumably to summon a waiter when one was required. Idly wondering if it was functioning, he pressed it.

The door opened almost immediately and a commis waiter appeared with a bowl and a bottle of Chateldon.
Having shown Pommes Frites the label, he solemnly decanted it. At the same time, the assistant
maître
d
’ entered with the menu and the wine list.

Declining the offer of an aperitif before his guest arrived, Monsieur Pamplemousse waited until the door was closed before settling down to study what was on offer. There was no harm in being ahead of the game early on.

The fixed price menu included a reasonable selection for all four courses.

Mentally opting for
l’oeuf Pierrot aux truffes
, whatever that was – the mere mention of truffles did the trick – he decided on a
noix
S. Jacques risotto
to follow, and perhaps the Soufflé Lapérouse after the cheese. Doucette was right; he might as well make the most of his opportunities while they lasted.

He knew one thing; having the door closed meant the heat was rapidly becoming more and more oppressive. The sound of lapping suggested Pommes Frites was feeling it too.

Parting the net curtains and feeling a draft of hot air rising from a radiator, he opened the window slightly and, seeing a restaurant on the other side of the road full of diners, automatically took out his camera.

Les Bouquinistes had a good write-up in
Le Guide
and old habits to record such moments died hard. So what if he was taken for a tourist?

Turning back away from the window, he decided to take one last shot of the room.

Flattening himself against the wall, he zoomed
out, pressed the shutter release button halfway down to bring the picture into sharp focus, and was about to take a picture of the door, including as much as possible of the gilded surround, when it swung open.

Expecting to see a waiter, the viewing screen was filled instead by an elegant figure that wouldn’t have disgraced the front cover of some glossy fashion magazine.

He was about to say there must be some mistake, when he saw the receptionist hovering in the background and hurriedly changed his mind.

The first time he had queried her hadn’t gone down too well. Twice might be one too many.

It was hard to say who was the most taken aback; the person standing in the doorway, Monsieur Pamplemousse, or Pommes Frites, who couldn’t decide whether to wag his tail or not. In the end he left it at half mast.

During the split second it took the camera to readjust to the change of scene the new arrival paused and smiled directly into the lens.

Monsieur Pamplemousse instinctively zoomed in for a tighter shot. If nothing else, it was a good test of the camera’s ability to cope with all eventualities. Almost at once a pin sharp picture appeared on the screen.

Mentally awarding it ten out of ten, he pressed the shutter-release button fully home and, as he did so, he became aware of something odd about the
person’s face, but by then it was too late.

The operation completed, he glanced up, and realised what had been bothering him. Although one of the subjects’s eyes had been staring straight towards the lens, the other was focused on Pommes Frites.

‘
Buonasera
,
signorita
,’ he said. ‘
Mi chiamo Aristide
Pamplemousse
.
E tu come ti Maria
?’

Monsieur Leclercq was right about one thing: the eye nearest to him immediately lost its sparkle, effectively disposing of the girl’s knowledge of Italian and presumably with it, her so-called connections to the Vatican.

‘Good evening,’ he translated. ‘My name is Aristide Pamplemousse, and you must be Maria.’

‘How
did
you guess?’

The girl entered the room, and as she turned to close the door he seized the opportunity to carry out a quick survey.

Clearly, he was privileged to be taking part in an early viewing of the fruits of her shopping expedition with Monsieur Leclercq.

The knee-length white satin dress she was wearing would have brought about an impatient snort from Doucette had she come across it in one of her magazines. From the way it clung to her body it might have been made from some form of semi-transparent plastic film, more suited to a hot summer’s day on the promenade in Cannes than a winter evening in Paris. If it was ‘off the shelf’, then it must have been awaiting her arrival, for she filled it to perfection; a
walking tribute to the art of haute couture.

A matching handbag and shoes completed the ensemble.

Monsieur Leclercq was right in one respect: the girl could fairly be described as being a pretty little thing, but having said that, his immediate reaction was he wouldn’t have trusted her any further than he could have thrown her, and given his present surroundings, that didn’t amount to much.

Her grey-green eyes were never still, darting here, there and everywhere; so much so, he wondered if the moments when they appeared to be out of synch with each other were simply a reflection of his own inability to keep up with the constant changes.

And yet … and yet … perhaps it was the overall whiteness, but she had that indefinable quality some women are born with; a kind of wide-eyed ‘please help me’ innocence that many men find hard to ignore, despite all the risks they know they are running.

Planting a warm kiss on both cheeks, she curled up on the banquette next to his chair, coming to rest in a cloud of lime, citron, grapefruit, and mandarin; a perfume that was immediately recognisable since Doucette had only that morning listed the ingredients to him.

The last named was particularly apposite, since additional confirmation of her identity came with the brief glimpse he’d had of a canal boat tattooed on what Monsieur Leclercq quaintly called her right
mandarine
. Although firmly anchored, it was rising
and falling in a tantalising manner as though riding an incoming tide.

‘
Eau
d
’
Hadrien
,’ he said. There was no harm in snatching a few bonus points while he could.

Looking suitably impressed, his guest nevertheless managed to recover her composure in remarkably quick time.

‘Monsieur Aristide Pamplemousse,’ she countered. ‘Late of the Paris
Sûretè
.’ She savoured the words as though they referred to one of the chef’s specials. ‘No wonder Véronique refused to say who I was meeting.’

‘You are not in your working clothes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Don’t tell me you have been defrocked.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ said Maria. ‘Anyway, I have had a career change. The habit went with my previous job.’

He tried to place her accent and, having failed, decided to stick with French.

‘It must have been very sudden …’

‘You could say that. Some offers happen faster than others. You turn a corner, and hey presto …’

‘But before that,’ he persisted, ‘you had no qualms about dressing up as a nun?’

‘Why should I? Don’t tell me it is against the law.’

‘I was thinking of the laws of propriety,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Some people might take exception to it.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Maria. ‘Different people have different tastes. A lot of men go for that kind of thing.’

‘Am I right in thinking it was you who chose this particular venue?’

‘I happen to like old things,’ said Maria. ‘Not that I don’t like new experiences too,’ she added.

Glancing round the room, she took in the faded decor. ‘This must be as old as Methuselah. Just look at that mirror. You can hardly see your face in it for all the scratches. As for the paintings; very Garden of Eden, if you believe in that kind of thing. Like how the world began – Adam and Eve and all that stuff, don’t you agree?’

‘I don’t picture an old man with a beard watching over us, if that’s what you mean,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘or even an old lady with a beard, if it comes to that.

‘It may be part of my early training but, like Lord Byron, I deny nothing, although I doubt everything. In the meantime I keep the Big Bang theory in reserve.’

Moistening her lips, Maria eyed him with new interest.

‘Do you, now?’

‘Although, even then,’ he said hastily, ‘I would have trouble picturing there being nothing before the world came about …’

‘You mean no foreplay … that kind of thing?’

Sensing he might be getting into rather deeper water than he had intended, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the bell push. ‘I think it is time we ordered.’

The assistant
maître
d
’ must have been hovering
outside, for he entered almost at once, notepad and a second menu at the ready.

‘You choose,’ said Maria. ‘You’re the expert.’

Ordering two glasses of champagne as an aperitif, Monsieur Pamplemousse stuck to his original plan; the egg and truffle concoction, risotto with scallops, and the soufflé Lapérouse, adding a bottle of Meursault to accompany the main course, and a steak
haché
with a bone on the side for Pommes Frites.

‘I’m in your hands,’ said Maria, when he looked at her enquiringly.

No sooner had the man departed than a commis waiter arrived with the champagne. It must be taken for granted in such surroundings.

He took heart in the fact that at least the risotto and the soufflé would take time to prepare. Otherwise, given the present rate of progress, he would be hard put discover all the things he felt it would be good to know, and there might not be a better opportunity.

With that end in view, he lingered over pronouncing on the wine when it was presented. Green-gold, it was full-bodied and … he couldn’t help inwardly comparing it with his guest – full of promise.

‘You do know the way to a girl’s heart,’ said Maria, when they were alone at last. She sipped her champagne. ‘What shall we talk about now?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse decided on the direct approach. He suddenly felt himself back in his old office at the Quai des Orfèvres, rather than a tiny room at Lapérouse.

‘Who are you working for?’

Maria pulled a face. ‘I was hoping it would be something nice.’

‘
Vous êtes ravissante, madamoiselle
,’ he responded. ‘Is that what you would like to hear me say?’

She looked at him suspiciously. Then, somewhat to his surprise said: ‘Only if you mean it.’

He was saved having to reply by the arrival of the first course.

‘A girl’s got her dreams,’ said Maria, when they were alone again.

‘Sometimes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘the reality can be less satisfactory than the dream. It is invariably more costly in the long run. I can only repeat the question. Who are you working for?’

‘
Le Guide
. As if you didn’t know.’

‘I have been away,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘But if you are not employed by them any more, why are you so interested in me?’

‘How do you know I am not?’

If she was thrown, it didn’t show. To her credit, she gave as good as she got.

‘Word gets around. Come to that, who
are
you working for?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored the question. ‘You are not French,’ he said.

‘No,’ said Maria. ‘But so what?’

‘Because, if you were French, you would know that we live by rules and regulations. It is all part of a Grand Design. French is not, as many outsiders
believe it to be, simply the language of love; it is also the language of property rights, contracts and many other things to do with the law, and it is very exact.

‘It began in 1804 with the Code Civil; Napoleon’s monument to the French language, spelling out in 2,281 short edicts the rules governing everything in a person’s life, from birth to death.

‘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.