Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (2 page)

But there again, it struck him there was something odd about the uniformed man on duty at the entrance; something about him that didn’t ring true. Pommes Frites had certainly noticed it too.

Pausing on the third floor for a breather, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided it wouldn’t do any harm to go through his
IN
tray and bring himself up to date before going on up to the Director’s office. With that end in view he made his way along the corridor leading to the inspectors’ room.

Expecting it to be empty, he was surprised to find several of his colleagues hard at work.

‘If you’re thinking of making out your expense sheets,’ said Glandier, after the usual greetings had been exchanged, ‘forget it. Madame Grante’s on strike. P39’s are piling up.’

‘What? You’re joking!’

‘Well, she isn’t in, and if she isn’t on strike, I wouldn’t lay any bets on her coming back.’ Guilot, red-faced as ever from a continuing intake of carrot juice before meals, his preferred panacea for the occupational hazard of chronic indigestion, glanced up from a desk by the window. ‘Can’t say I blame her. Rumour has it the Director’s been talking of replacing her with a laptop.’

‘That’s all very well,’ said Glandier, ‘but these things add up. Three months on the road costs a bomb. My bank account is suffering withdrawal symptoms.’

‘If we don’t get our expenses,’ said Truffert, ‘the job won’t be worth a candle. If I’d realised what it was going to be like spending so much time eating on my own, I would have become a monk instead. The food may not always be as good, but at least you’ve got company.’

‘Try telling that to a Trappist,’ said Guilot. ‘You wouldn’t last long. At least we don’t suffer a vow of silence.’

‘I tell you something else,’ Loudier broke in gloomily. ‘If Madame Grante doesn’t come back soon, it’s only a short step to outsourcing the whole of the Accounts Department to India.’

Listening to the others talk, Monsieur Pamplemousse began to feel it was a good thing he hadn’t made it to Michel Bras after all.

‘“Outsourcing” is the latest key word,’ explained Truffert. ‘According to the grape vine there’s a distinct possibility of doing the same thing with the canteen.’

‘Not to India as well I hope,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘At least the curry would be hot,’ said Loudier. ‘Even when it’s cold, if you see what I mean.’

‘Pommes Frites won’t take kindly to it, that’s for sure,’ said Truffert. ‘He’ll be bringing his own if that happens. I can’t see him missing out on Tuesday’s
cassoulet
.’

‘Think of the alternative,’ persisted Loudier. ‘Can you imagine … the staff of France’s premiere food guide reduced to eating microwaved quiche Lorraine off plastic trays.’

‘It’s either that or portion control,’ said Glandier. ‘Take your pick.’

‘You know what that means,’ said Loudier. ‘Less all round. You don’t have portion control when people can have as much as they like.’

‘It’s like the old Woody Allen joke,’ said Glandier. ‘Not only is the food terrible, but it comes in such small portions.’

‘When did all this come about?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Over the last couple of weeks,’ said Guilot.

‘Who hasn’t been phoning in?’ asked Truffert pointedly.

Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit he had been unusually lax in that respect.

Mobile phones had their uses, but losing the use of his own had felt like a luxury and he had made the most of it, especially while meandering across the Auvergne, where communication wasn’t exactly on the cutting edge of technology at the best of times. It had been blissful.

‘Monsieur Leclercq is allowing all this to happen?’

‘That’s the odd thing,’ said Truffert. ‘Ever since he arrived back from the States he’s been a different person. Locking himself away with some high-flying time and motion consultant for hours on end; refusing to see anyone else.’

‘If you want my opinion,’ said Loudier, ‘he’s flipped. It’s bad enough trying to get into the place as it is. As for eyeball recognition … they’ll be installing passport control next. I shan’t be sorry to say
adieu
to it all.’

Loudier had been coming up for retirement for as long as Monsieur Pamplemousse could remember. He had stayed on through a series of short-term contracts, but he sounded in earnest this time.

‘You know what the next item on the agenda will be? VipChips! Have one implanted in your arm and you get keyless entry just by waving it at the lock.’

‘That’s not the only thing they can do,’ said Truffert. ‘In Africa they use them to keep track of wild animals.
Mark my words … they’ll end up being able to keep tabs on your comings and goings via a satellite. Think of that!’

‘Talking of which,’ said Loudier, ‘has anyone heard from Madame Grante? I tried ringing the entry bell on her apartment in the rue des Renaudes, but there was no answer. To all intents and purposes she seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.’

‘That’s what comes of bringing in outsiders,’ said Glandier. ‘The founder must be turning in his grave. They didn’t have business efficiency experts in his day. Can you imagine?’

‘Péage by name,’ said Loudier gloomily. ‘Péage by nature.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked up his ears. He wondered if it had anything to do with the graffiti on the back of the car.

‘It isn’t the first time it’s happened,’ explained Loudier. ‘That honour goes to Monsieur Leclercq’s car. It’s at the dealers being attended to. Meantime his space is being used by our new business efficiency guru.’

‘What’s the betting the name was changed for the job?’ said Guilot. ‘It probably sounds better.’

‘Very Hollywood,’ said Glandier. ‘Like Fred Astaire started out as Frederick Austerlitz.’

Having been brought up in the Savoy region where there wasn’t much else to do during the winter months, Glandier was a dedicated cineaste and seldom let pass an opportunity to air his knowledge.

‘And Doris Day was born Doris von Kappelhoff,’ said Loudier.

‘That’s nothing.’ Glandier sounded slightly piqued. ‘Kirk Douglas began life as Iussur Danielovitch Demsky.’

‘That sounds a pretty good reason for changing it,’ said Guilot. ‘Think of the trouble he would have had signing autographs if he hadn’t.’

‘I’ll tell you something for nothing,’ broke in Loudier. ‘I looked Peáge up in the Paris phone book and there isn’t single one listed.’

‘Perhaps it started off as Plage,’ said Guilot. ‘It doesn’t have to be major, one letter is often enough. People are always doing it with their kids. Adding a letter on, even simply taking one away. Then they have to go through life spelling it out.’

‘There are laws in France about that kind of thing,’ said Loudier.

‘It happens,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

He was reminded of the time he’d had cause to investigate the Director’s family plot in the Père Lachaise cemetery.

Monsieur Leclercq’s family name was Leclerc. He must have decided at some point there were too many listed, so he’d added a ‘q’ to set himself apart. Knowing it was probably a sensitive point, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided not to mention the fact. It would create too much of a diversion.

His spirits sank still further as the conversation returned to the subject in hand: the future of
Le Guide
. Clearly, things were even worse than he had anticipated. He wondered if he should mention the summons he had received to return to headquarters, but decided to hold back for the time being, at least until he knew more about what was going on.

Leafing through the small pile of papers that had accumulated in his tray while he was away, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his pen …

‘
Zut alors
!’ He could have sworn he had it with him when they checked out of the hotel that morning.

‘Here … use this.’ Glandier tossed a Biro across the table.

Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the object. Compared to his Cross writing instrument it didn’t have the right feel at all, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Initialing the first few papers, he made his excuses and continued on his way up to the Director’s office on the 7
^th
floor.

Hoping to catch Monsieur Leclercq’s secretary for long enough to get the low-down, he was disappointed to find Véronique emerging from the inner sanctum just as he entered the outer office.

She looked as though she had been crying, and her whispered ‘
bonne chance
’ as she squeezed past struck him as being not so much a casual pleasantry as a heartfelt expression of some inner anguish.

Expecting to find the Director seated in the usual chair behind his desk, he was surprised to see it was empty.

Glancing round the room, he noted a small workstation in one corner; a laptop, mobile phone and desk-lamp neatly arranged on top, a plush office chair pushed into the kneehole. He assumed it must belong to the new advisor. It all looked very efficient.

A pair of sliding glass doors in the vast picture window were open, and despite the chill air, the Director was outside on the balcony encircling the whole of the mansard floor.

He appeared to be gazing into the middle distance, and it wasn’t until Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites drew near that he became aware of their presence and turned to face them.

It was several weeks since Monsieur Pamplemousse had last seen him, but during that time he appeared to have lost weight, visibly ageing in the process. He was also wearing dark glasses. It must be catching. No wonder Véronique looked worried.

‘Ah, Pamplemousse!’ he exclaimed. ‘At long last. I have been looking out for you.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to say they would have arrived a quarter of an hour ago if they hadn’t been locked out.

‘We came as speedily as we could, monsieur.’

‘I suppose the traffic was bad?’ said Monsieur Leclercq.

‘Not when we left,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There wasn’t a car to be seen on the road at 5.30 this morning.’

‘And you drove straight here?’

‘We had a brief break stop at the Aire la Briganderie south of Orleans for Pommes Frites’ benefit …’

‘So that he could stretch his legs, I presume?’

‘It was more urgent than that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse loyally. ‘He was badly in need of a
pipi
. As it was he only just made the silver birches in time. I also wanted to see if they had any string …’

‘String!’ boomed the Director.

‘The passenger door had developed a rattle,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I was worried in case Pommes Frites fell out when we were cornering at speed.’

Monsieur Leclercq emitted a sigh. ‘Ah, Aristide, I do wish you would pension off that old 2CV of yours and use a company car instead. Although, in the circumstances …’ He broke off, dismissing whatever it was he had been about to say and instead glanced nervously at his watch.

Waving towards the visitor’s chair, he followed them back into the room.

Pressing a button to trigger off the automatic closing of the sliding doors, there was a faint, but luxurious hiss of escaping air from his black leather armchair as he seated himself.

Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on the desk in front of him, forming a steeple with his hands as he gathered his thoughts.

It may have been the result of wearing dark glasses,
but it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the overall effect was more suggestive of the Leaning Tower of Pisa than the upright spire of Sainte-Chapelle.

Happening to glance to his left during the pause that followed, he saw the door to the drinks cupboard was open. A bottle of Monsieur Leclercq’s favourite cognac, Roullet Très Hors d’Age, was standing alongside an empty glass, and he couldn’t help wondering if it were a case of cause and effect.

Also, it might have been his imagination or simply a trick of the light, but the heavily framed portrait above the cupboard appeared to show the sitter looking even more forbidding than usual. On second thoughts ‘strained’ might be a better description.

Perhaps Glandier was right and even now
Le
Guide
’s founder, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, was in the process of turning over in his grave.

In much the same way that the subject’s eyes in many portraits had a disconcerting habit of appearing to follow the viewer round a room, so the founder’s portrait never failed to reflect the prevailing mood; his steely eyes acting like the mercury in a barometer as they moved up and down according to the prevailing temperature.

Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but glance surreptitiously at his own watch. The hands showed 13.45.

Following whatever was on the menu for the main course at Michel Bras, poached
fois gras
with beetroot
perhaps, or his renowned filet of Aubrac beef, they might have been rounding things off with a chocolate
coolant
: another ‘signature’ dish, inspired, so it was said, by a family skiing holiday. The warmth of a hollowed-out sponge, sometimes filled with fruit, at other times with chocolate or caramel, the whole capped with a scoop of frozen double cream, was intended to give the effect of a snow-covered mountain peak.

As he remembered it, the latter truly was the icing on the cake; much imitated, but never surpassed. It was no wonder the restaurant boasted three Stock Pots in
Le Guide
.

The thought reminded him of how hungry he felt, and he knew someone else who would be even more upset if he knew what was passing through his mind.

Except the ‘someone else’ in question, blissfully unaware of his master’s thought processes, was making full use of the lull in order to look for the water bowl that was invariably made ready for him whenever he visited the Director’s office. He peered round the desk and behind the waste bin, but he couldn’t see it anywhere. Such a thing had never happened before, bringing home to him, as nothing else could, the full seriousness of the situation.

Having drawn a blank, he gave vent to a deep sigh and settled down at his master’s feet to await developments.

The Director gave a start and came back down to
earth from wherever he had been.

‘No doubt, Pamplemousse,’ he said, ‘you are wondering why I sent for you.’