Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (17 page)

‘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 during 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.

‘And Pommes Frites too, I hope,’ said Martine.

‘I shan’t be able to look him in the face if I leave him behind,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He is already licking his lips.’

As he terminated the call, Monsieur Pamplemousse heard a tap on his windscreen, and looking up he saw a meter maid using the bonnet of his car as a writing desk.

It was a pity Monsieur Leclercq wasn’t with him.
It might have been a salutary reminder of the fact that not only was there no justice in the world, but even the prettiest of little things could have their downside.

On the other hand, the chances were that it would be like water off a duck’s back. Some people never learnt.

Crossing the Seine via the Pont de Bir Hakeim for the second time in three days, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help wondering if Madame Grante and Jo Jo were watching the passing scene from the window of Véronique’s apartment further downstream.

In the Place de Costa Rica he turned left into the rue Raynouard and found a parking space almost exactly opposite the entrance to Maison de Balzac. Crossing the road, he looked down at the little blue-roofed house, with its green shutters and immaculately kept garden. Despite being stuck in a kind of time-warp and shrouded in darkness, the semi-circular front porch still managed to looked welcoming and friendly, which was more than could be said of some of the entrances to the vast apartment blocks on either side, with their vast plate-glass doors and uniformed security guards.

Making his way up the hill towards Mademoiselle Borel’s block, he came across a plaintive handwritten notice attached to a lamp post, pleading for news of a cat that had fallen from a seventh-floor window. Cats led charmed lives. Even so, he didn’t fancy its chances. It must have used up most of its allotted number on the way down.

Presenting his credentials to a poker-faced man in the marble foyer, he led the way round a flower-filled rock garden towards a bank of four lifts, conscious as he did so that their every move would be recorded.

If the man remembered him from his last visit, he didn’t let on. The same flowers were in bloom, confirming his initial suspicions that they were probably vacuumed every morning rather than watered. He wouldn’t have dared touch one to find out. That, too, would be preserved on disc or tape.

Arriving on the tenth floor, he crossed the thickly carpeted vestibule, pressed a button on a door facing him, and while waiting recalled the first time he had visited Martine Borel.

That was when he discovered that not all computer boffins sported beards and wore steel-rimmed glasses. Instead, he had been momentarily knocked for six by the person who greeted him; cool, and smelling of what was then the ‘in’ perfume – Bigarade.

As the door opened he was relieved to find nothing, not even the perfume, had changed.

Pommes Frites bounded on ahead with a proprietorial air, made a half circuit of the room,
stopped by a door leading to the kitchen for an appreciative sniff, then just as speedily returned to base, wagging his tail.

‘I do apologise …’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘There is no need.’ Martine Borel gave her
four-legged
visitor a welcoming hug. ‘It is good to know everything meets with his approval …’

To Monsieur Pamplemousse’s relief it was a case of taking up the threads as though they saw each other every day.

Martine ushered him towards a black leather armchair, one of a pair set near the picture window running almost the entire length of one wall.

A glass-topped table between the chairs had been set with two tall and recently chilled champagne glasses, one on either side of an ice bucket.

The arrangement of the furnishings was remarkably similar to Véronique’s, as was the view across the Seine; in Passy, the Eiffel Tower was never far away.

Removing an already opened bottle from the ice bucket, Martine wiped the bottom of it dry with a napkin. While she was filling the glasses he took stock. Her make-up was, as ever, understatedly impeccable. A few grey hairs, perhaps, but the gold bangle on her wrist was the same, and the absence of rings suggested she was still Mademoiselle Borel.

It occurred to him how similar she and Vérnonique were. They even dressed alike, except Martine favoured green rather than brown, to match her emerald eyes.
Perhaps these extra niceties also went with living in the 16
^th
.

‘You haven’t changed,’ he said.

‘Neither have you …’ She eyed him quizzically as she handed him one of the glasses. ‘A few more grey hairs, perhaps.’

He raised the glass to his nose. The last time it had been a Californian white: Château Bouchamie Carneros, if his memory served him correctly; this time it was pink, refreshingly
pétillant
, and equally elusive.

‘Think Bugey,’ said Martine.

He placed it now: Cerdon, a sparkling wine made by the Champagne-method in the mountainous area to the west of the Savoie. She had caught him out again.

‘Tell me the worst,’ said Martine, after he had given her a rough outline of
Le Guide
’s problem. ‘I take it you still have everything on a main frame computer? As I remember it, a Poulanc DB23, 450 series. That is still in use?’

‘It is,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But following the previous attack, we now have a new system in place. Preliminary work on the guide no longer takes place on the main computer. It has been divided into separate work-stations, one for each of the twenty-two regions of France.

‘Theoretically, Monsieur Leclercq is the last person to see each entry via a printout, and he checks every detail with the proverbial fine tooth comb before giving
the OK for it to go through to the DB23, where it is assembled as a whole.’

‘So it isn’t exactly a repeat of the last time you were infiltrated?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘On that occasion the hard disc on the DB23 was stolen and reprogrammed. This time it is more insidious and therefore potentially much more worrying. The first occasion would have been a disaster, a criminal act easily recognisable as such by the general public. Hence it would have been easier to recover from without leaving
Le Guide
with too much egg on its face.’

‘Fragmentation has its advantages,’ said Martine. ‘Presumably the stations themselves are not connected to the outside world?’

‘The hope was it would make the system impregnable.’

Martine looked skeptical. ‘So what is happening this time?’

‘It began with tiny changes being made to individual items by some person, or persons unknown, after they had been passed by the Director: essential pieces of information were being altered in such a way as to make it look like sheer carelessness, something calculated to undermine people’s trust in
Le Guide
.

‘
Par exemple
, early on we came across an entry saying Paul Bocuse is closed four days of the week.’

‘That would have thrown the cat among the pigeons.’

‘Indeed. Fortunately, we picked up on it, otherwise knives would have been out in
Collonges-au-Mont-d’Or
!’

‘Is there a recognisable pattern to the changes?’

‘In the beginning there was. Unfortunately, whoever is responsible seems to have grown more confident with time and the whole thing has begun to escalate.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse cited the recent changes relating to the Tour d’Argent’s entry.

‘So it’s panic stations?’

‘The publication date in March may sound a long way away, but the reality is that unless something is done quickly we shall never make it, and that will be a black mark in itself.’

Martine replenished their glasses. ‘Entering a computer is much like cracking a walnut. Once you are through the outer shell you can introduce a worm, which will feed on the inside fruit to its heart’s content. The problem is how to get through the hard exterior in the first place.’

‘Which is why I am here,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Tell some people a thing is impossible and they immediately see it as a challenge,’ said Martine. ‘That’s what hackers are all about.

‘Data security is big business. The craft of “intrusion protection” is an official job description – they are called “sniffers”, and part of their work is trying to see how to break into systems. A good many start out as programmers. There is no better introduction.

‘Only one thing is certain, there are people out there whose main aim in life is to keep ahead of the game. It is our function to try and beat them to the call.’

‘
Excusez
moi
.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse made a face as his phone rang.

Signalling to Pommes Frites, Martine discreetly made her way towards the kitchen. Pommes Frites obeyed the call with alacrity, licking his lips as he followed on behind.

Activating his mobile, Monsieur Pamplemousse heard a familiar voice at the other end. ‘You have been quick,’ he said.

‘Knowing which buttons to press helps,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘If you have one piece of information about a person you can almost always find more.

‘In the case of your young lady, I struck gold almost at once by playing around with the name Péage, wondering what one would do to Anglicise it. Quite simply, the answer is – take away the “é”.

‘Her maiden name was Crescent … Deirdre Crescent, but for some unknown reason she was always known as Maria. According to the records, she is twenty-four, but looks much younger. Father was possibly a refugee from Eastern Europe who came to do the garden. In my day, when she was small she would have been known as “the school cert”.’

‘
Comment
?’

‘It is an English joke to do with exams. Rather difficult to translate, I’m afraid. But take it from me,
it was an augury of things to come.

‘She was born in Totteridge and Whetstone. It sounds like a firm of estate agents, but in fact it’s a station on our Northern underground line. Rather out in the sticks. Such details are important in England; we place great store by them. They conjure up an immediate picture. Living in Harrow-on-the-Hill, is one thing, but someone born in Totteridge and Whetstone might well kick over the traces sooner or later. In Maria’s case it was sooner.

‘She had what is known in the trade as a “loose eye”, which she used to good effect when she was at school. It was a kind of party trick that also became a weapon of self-defence.

‘When she was eighteen she married a Captain Page. Ex-British army, although there is no record of which regiment he was in. At the time he was dabbling in used cars in London’s Warren Street; that and real estate.

‘He also wasn’t averse to passing his new bride around among his friends in the motor trade – for a small fee, of course. Afterwards he sold the photographs on. She stood it for six months, then ran away to Paris and hasn’t been seen since.

‘The last that was heard of her she was living on a canal boat somewhere in north-eastern France.’

‘That is it?’

‘I’m afraid so. At least as far as this side of the Channel is concerned. If I find out any more I will let you know. I hope I haven’t interfered with your dinner.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You have whetted my appetite. You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you how long it has been cooking.’

‘Now you have whetted mine,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘I will have a word with Mrs Pickering.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse offered up his thanks and promised to be in touch if he needed anything else.

He stared at the instrument in his hand. The information wasn’t exactly world shattering, but at least it confirmed all that Jacques had told him and helped build up a picture. Guilot had certainly been right about the name change. He had guessed Péage sounded more exotic to foreign ears. Living on a canal boat explained the tattoo as well.

He wondered if she would put in an appearance at tomorrow’s tasting.

‘I have been thinking,’ Martine, broke into his thoughts as she came back into the room.

‘It seems to me there are three questions that need to be addressed.’ She ticked them off on her fingers. ‘Who? Why? and How? Not necessarily in order of importance. If you solve any one of those,’ she continued, unwittingly echoing Mr Pickering’s words, ‘it will inevitably lead you to the others. I would suggest for a start it is most likely someone within your own organisation.

‘I would also suggest you are holding in your hand a very likely means.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at his mobile. ‘This?’

‘Not that particular one,’ said Martine. ‘It is, if I may so, somewhat out of date.’

‘Sticks and stones …’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘… may break my bones,’ said Martine, ‘but never criticise a man’s mobile. It is very emasculating.’

‘I happen to like buttons that are easy to find in the dark,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have enough trouble getting my fingers on the right ones as it is.’

‘I only said that,’ said Martine, ‘because if you have someone in mind it would be good to know what model they are using.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse was reminded of the Director’s words:
She is always using my mobile
.

‘I think I can safely say it is the latest model.’

‘Was,’ corrected Martine. ‘New ones appear almost as fast as we speak.’

‘Tell me more,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Martine looked at her watch. ‘Why don’t I do that over dinner? If we leave it any longer
gigot de sept
heures
will become eleven-hour lamb, and as it is my first essay into the realms of molecular gastronomy, I would value your expert opinion.’

Having seated Monsieur Pamplemousse at an already laid table in the kitchen, she removed a large casserole dish from the oven, and while he was opening his bottle of wine – a Croze Hermitage Tête de Cuvée from Yann Chave – began serving it out.

‘The lamb is milk fed from the Pyrénées. Two days
ago I began by rubbing in salt and some thyme. This morning I pre-heated the oven to seventy degrees centigrade, wiped the leg clean of any excess salt, browned it in olive oil and placed it in the casserole – it needs a tight-fitting lid, like this one. After that I prepared all the other ingredients: carrots, onions; a
bouquet garni
of fresh thyme, rosemary, and a bay leaf of course; then I added garlic to the dish, and later still, some sliced potatoes …

‘Earlier today I reduced around a third of a bottle of white wine until it was syrupy and passed that through a sieve to make a sauce in the roasting tray.’

While she was talking, Martine prepared a liberal helping in a bowl for Pommes Frites.

‘It was lucky for both of us that you had time to answer the phone,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘I know it sounds very labour intensive,’ Martine placed one of the plates in front of him while he poured the wine, ‘but it isn’t really. Besides, it almost becomes a labour of love. You keep wondering if all is well inside its cocoon.’