Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (18 page)

Monsieur Pamplemousse applied the side of his fork to the meat. It was like cutting through butter.

For a moment or two, apart from a lapping sound coming from a corner of the kitchen, they ate in silence.

‘It is,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse at last, ‘quite the most delicious lamb I have eaten for a long time. Congratulations!’

He tasted the wine. To his relief it didn’t let him down. The underlining flavour of olives and thyme
complemented the food; the slight acidity gave it freshness.

‘Don’t thank me,’ said Martine. ‘Thank my current cookery guru, Hervé This. He is the one who brought science into the French kitchen. The recipe itself comes from an English chef – Heston Blumenthal. It was from his Slow Food period. Nowadays he is also deeply into technology and the pursuit of excellence.’

‘They are not alone,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is all part of the process of evolution. Gastronomy has never really stood still since Carême turned cooking into an architectural art form. Escoffier followed on, raising its status still further. Nowadays we live in a restless age.

‘Apart from Hervé This, we have Marc Veyrat, Robuchon, Ducasse, Gagnaire and many others. Spain has Ferran Adrià at El Bulli. America has Thomas Keller’s French Laundry, Harold McKee, with his extraordinary books on the chemistry of food, and Jean-George Vongerichten in New York. I have also read that if you go into the kitchens of Grant Achatz’s restaurant in Chicago you will look in vain for a stove as we know it. Fragrance is the order of the day, and it is all brought about in stainless-steel cylinders.

‘People in all walks of life are forever searching for perfection. If it isn’t a new taste sensation it is mobile telephones.’

‘I can take a hint.’ Martine looked suitably penitent.

Adding another slice of meat to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s plate, she took a deep breath.

‘Not to bore you on the subject, but historically, once upon a time bigger was best. Then a researcher at Bell Laboratories in America developed a tiny gear wheel that was so small – around the diameter of a human hair, they couldn’t find a use for it, so for fun he turned it into a bracelet for an ant’s leg. It didn’t do much for the jewellery trade; come to that, it didn’t do a lot for ants either, but in the fullness of time it spawned a whole new industry called nano-technology. Now, small is beautiful.

‘Mobiles are not only getting smaller by the day, but at the same time they are becoming so crammed with gadgets they are starting to suffer from what is known as “feature creep”. They are like Swiss Army knives. Fascinating to play with, but who needs to get stones out of horse’s hooves these days?

‘Now that it is possible to combine mobile technology with satellite-based navigation, people will be able to point their mobile at any hotel or restaurant and, at the press of a button, it will tell them everything they need to know.’

‘Monsieur Leclercq won’t be very happy,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘It is something he will have to come to terms with,’ said Martine. ‘But at the same time, for many people part of the joy of travelling is in finding things out for themselves. Planning ahead is part of the pleasure. They also value the opinion of someone they can trust.

‘One shouldn’t ignore other factors. Partly, it is a
case of cause and effect. After 9/11 many Americans gave up flying and took to their cars because they felt safer. Result: deaths on the road rose by a measurable amount.

‘Someone in France invents a new perfume smelling of teak and trees in the rain forests of Brazil trees are chopped down to extract the essence.

‘The really major down-side of mobile phones is the other uses they can be put to, such as triggering off things from a long distance.

‘The bomb that killed over two hundred people in a Bali nightclub was detonated that way. Then came the bombing in Madrid; 191 people on ten commuter trains killed during a three-minute period. After that came the London Underground bombings.’

‘But could one be used to break into
Le Guide
’s files?’

‘There is no reason why not. Current models are perfectly capable of scanning documents. Once scanned, the information can be compressed and tidied up electronically.

‘The Xerox Research Centre in Grenoble has developed a phone that is capable of photographing anything up to ten pages at a time and turning it into black and white editable text ready for transmitting by fax or any other way you wish.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a sigh. ‘Where will it all end?’

‘Things have a habit of going the full circle,’ said Martine.

‘Currently, mobiles are in much the same position as television receivers were a few years ago. Remember Bruce Springsteen’s song, “57 Channels and nothing on”? He ended up blasting his to pieces with a .44 Magnum. That was in 1992. Think how it would go now. More is not necessarily better.’

‘I shall hate you for the rest of my life,’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse, paraphrasing the song he’d seen advertised on a hoarding only a few evenings ago.

‘Something like that.’

‘And mobile telephones?’

‘When things reach saturation point, people will turn to something else. The joy of taking out an old photographic album is already a thing of the past for many families; they have so many images stored on their computer. It could be due for a revival.’

‘I can’t wait,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘So to sum up, someone could work on our files at their leisure and afterwards feed it back into the system?’

‘If they are computer literate and in a position of being able to choose their moment. That is why I feel it is likely to be someone inside.’

Martine began clearing the table. ‘Would Pommes Frites care for a little more?’

‘Yes and no,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Yes, I am sure he would. No, he shouldn’t. He has an important day ahead of him tomorrow and he needs all his faculties.’

Martime listened as he explained about the forthcoming tasting.

‘Things
are
getting serious,’ she said. ‘In that case, he had better not have any of this.’ She produced two bowls of a chocolate-coloured dessert from her refrigerator.

‘I have added a little Calvados and it wouldn’t be good news if he woke up tomorrow morning with a hangover.

‘It is one of Monsieur This’s inventions: Chocolate Chantilly. Molecular gastronomy at its best. If you know what happens to food when you cook it, you can make it work for you rather than against you. It may look and taste like cream, but I guarantee it is all in the mind.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse sampled his. Ambrosia was the only word to describe it. ‘I daresay a small spoonful wouldn’t come amiss,’ he said, aware that his every movement was being watched.

From the expression on Pommes Frites’ face a moment later, he was clearly of the same opinion.

‘You are in the wrong business,’ he said to Martine. ‘If you ever think of opening a restaurant I guarantee you would have a Stock Pot in no time at all.’

Martine shook her head. ‘Perish the thought. I value my freedom too much.’

‘Returning to basics,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘What if two people share a phone? Wouldn’t the other person realise what was happening?’

‘They could be using separate SIM cards,’ said Martine, after a moment’s thought.

‘Does that mean …?’

‘I think I know the answer to “who”,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘That’s two down and only one to go.’

‘In that case, what is the problem? I am not exactly looking for work, but if you want to take me on board and make it official …’

‘It is very kind of you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but we need to tread carefully. Sending out the wrong signals could be dangerous.’

He filled her in with the rest of the picture.

‘I take your point,’ said Martine. ‘I understand the English have an apt phrase for it.’

‘They call it the “short and curlies” syndrome,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You see the predicament.’

He looked around, aware that for some reason Pommes Frites, was on his feet, padding restlessly to and fro.

‘Perhaps the Calvados wasn’t such a good idea after all,’ said Martine.

‘It could be a call of nature,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But I think he is suffering from premonitions. I recognise the symptoms.

‘Anyway.’ He rose to his feet. ‘It has been a lovely evening and it has helped clear my mind. I can’t thank you enough.’

‘All good things come to an end,’ said Martine.

‘One day of these days,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘you must meet my wife. But first I would like to introduce you to her sister. She would
benefit from a few lessons, especially when it comes to
tripes à la mode de Caen
.’

‘I promise to read up on the subject,’ said Martine. ‘I’m sure Monsieur Blumenthal will have some ideas; like serving it alongside some deep-fried oranges in batter perhaps …’

‘Anything would be an improvement,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Bending down, Martine gave Pommes Frites a farewell pat. ‘Good luck for tomorrow.’

‘Sparing his blushes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘he has one unique quality that sets him apart from other dogs: discrimination. Given a choice, he doesn’t automatically gobble down the first thing he comes to. He sniffs everything, and only then does he go for what in his opinion is the best.’

It was impossible to know if Pommes Frites had taken in what was said about him, but during the drive home he appeared lost in thought. Normally the most accommodating of passengers, anticipating corners and bends like a seasoned pillion passenger on a motorcycle, he had perfected the art of shifting his large frame at exactly the right moment. But when his mind was on other things, keeping a straight course demanded Monsieur Pamplemousse’s undivided attention, so he wasn’t sorry when the journey came to an end.

His answerphone showed there had been four calls while they were out; one from Jacques, two from Doucette, and the fourth from Sicily. He rang Doucette back first.

She sounded relieved. ‘I was getting worried, Aristide.’

‘I have been well looked after, Couscous. You will never guess what I was given to eat.
Gigot de sept heures
.’

‘No wonder you are late back,’ said Doucette. ‘I hope you won’t expect it too often in the future. Guess what we had …’

‘Not …’

‘I am afraid so.’ Doucette lowered her voice. ‘Agathe said she knew if she didn’t cook it I would be disappointed.’

‘The answer,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘may lie in the molecules.’

‘You must be joking,’ said Doucette. ‘Don’t tell her that. She will have a fit.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse continued undeterred. ‘I have put out feelers on the subject. In the meantime, keep smiling, Couscous. Worse things happen at sea.’

Jacques must have been awaiting his call. He answered halfway through the first ring.

‘
BRINKS
were pretty cagey about your man. He is no more a member of staff than I am. They immediately went cold when I mentioned his name. Quoted the Data Protection Act, would you believe …’

‘They were within their rights, of course,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Does that make it any better? Anyway, twisting their arm, I gleaned the fact that he was with them
for a short while; long enough to pinch one of their uniforms.

‘I didn’t tell them I knew where it was. For what it’s worth, they let fall the fact that he’s an “ink addict”. Not that that means much these days; tattoos are currently the “in” thing. And they aren’t all sticks-on either; applying the needle is a big money spinner. If the customers are female, they often want them done in the most surprising places, and that costs …

‘Or so I’m told,’ Jacques added hastily.

‘I believe you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Thousands wouldn’t.’

‘Silly question,’ said Jacques, ‘but do you have a photo?’

‘It wouldn’t do you much good,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, thinking of the dark glasses.

‘I could have a go …’ he began, and then broke off as a series of distant bells began ringing in his head; the phoney accent, Maria’s tattoo … ‘I think I know where I might be able to get hold of one. Leave it with me.

‘Also, just to warn you, it could be another case of my giving you the wrong name. You might try under Dubois …’

‘Dubois? Dubois … wasn’t he the
vilain
who cropped up the last time you had a computer
break-in
? Had it in for your boss; something to do with an old score he wanted to settle.’

‘Old isn’t the word,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It goes back to the early Sixties when Monsieur
Leclercq was an inspector. The last big amendment to the Code Napoleon had just come into force – the
Code de la Consommation
– and he caught Dubois trying pass off a run-of-the mill chicken for a Poularde de Bresse.’

‘A despot of the very worst kind,’ said Jacques dryly. ‘Stop at nothing.’

‘That was the trouble.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse rose to the Director’s defence.

‘When Monsieur Leclercq said he was reporting him he drew a knife …’

‘
Touché
,’ said Jacques. ‘And after he came out of prison, didn’t he make a play for your Madame Grante before he got nabbed?’

‘That’s the one. It would be interesting to know if he is still inside.’

While they were talking, Pommes Frites drifted out to the kitchen, picked up his blanket, and carried it off to another room, curling up on the floor at the foot of his master’s bed. If he was going to be on guard duty, he might as well be comfortable.

Shortly afterwards, Monsieur Pamplemousse followed on behind and, without even bothering to undress, closed the door behind him, turned off the light and lay back with his eyes closed, trying to marshal his thoughts into some kind of order.

The Director’s situation was clear enough, but he found himself wondering how Madame Grante fitted into it all, or himself and Pommes Frites, come to that. Clearly if it were Dubois’s handiwork, he wanted all
three of them out of the way. The threats to Jo Jo, the attempt to discredit himself and Pommes Frites, bore the hallmarks of long-term planning. Talking to Jacques had set him wondering if
Le Guide
’s Head of Accounts still had a picture of Dubois by her bedside. More than likely she had thrown it away long ago, but you never knew.