Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (20 page)

But he needn’t have worried. Having clearly awarded the
pré-salé
lamb second place, Pommes Frites chose the one from the Pyrénées. This time he waited for the applause to die down before returning to his master.

Pencils in the hands of the press corps literally flew across their pads.

‘No photographs, please,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, as a member of the group held up a camera. ‘I have my reasons,’ he added. ‘We do not seek publicity at this stage.’

‘And now, we come to perhaps the sternest test of all: beef.

‘Many people would nominate Charolais as being the best in all France.’

‘Bowl A,’ chimed in Veronique.

‘Again, as the chefs among you will know, Charolais cattle bear a Label Rouge, which means they have been raised on a diet of at least three parts grass to
one part grain, and have spent around ten months outdoors.

‘By law, the meat must be dry-aged for a minimum of eight days in a refrigerated room at just above freezing; ideally, for anything up to three weeks.

‘As with all the prime products being used in these tests, when the time comes to transport the animals for slaughter, it must be carried out humanely and without any stress, which would impair the quality. The carcasses must also be guaranteed free of growth hormones and antibiotics.

‘However, in the opinion of many gourmets, the best beef of all comes not from from Burgundy, but from Aubrac in the Auvergne …’

As Pommes Frites made his way forward Véronique, finger to her lips, nodded towards bowl B.

Monsieur Pamplemousse breathed a sigh of relief. It was his home territory, and he knew Pommes Frites shared his tastes.

‘Once again,’ continued the Director, ‘it is a matter of what the animals feed on in the wild. The heights of the Auvergne, over one thousand metres above sea level, are rich in herbs, gentian and the like, which imparts a wonderful taste to the naturally marbled meat.’

It was a controversial statement, which was immediately taken up by some members of the assembly.

Jay Corby began extolling the virtues of American beef. ‘The reason why it’s the best in the world is
because the cattle are killed off at a much earlier age – eighteen months; then we age it longer.’

‘If I tell you Aubrac is the first choice of Michel Bras, who for many years has enjoyed three Stock Pots in
Le Guide
,’ persisted Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I feel that says it all …’

The Judge held up her hand again. ‘If Aubrac beef is so good,’ she said, ‘why is your dog refusing to go anywhere near it?’

‘What?’ Monsieur Leclercq broke off in mid-flight.

He stared round the room, seeking help first of all from Véronique, who shook her head, clearly at a loss as to what had gone wrong, then at Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘with all due respect to those behind the scenes, the bowls have become transposed.’

‘I hardly think that can be the case,’ said the Judge. ‘He is also refusing to touch bowl A. Yet, albeit reluctantly, he has finished off what you choose to call a lesser product from a
supermarché
. Clearly, he is of the opinion that is the best.’

A chorus of agreement rose from those around her.

For once, even the Director was temporarily at a loss for words.

Attention focused on Monsieur Pamplemousse as Pommes Frites raced out of the room. Leaping to his feet he pointed to the bowls. ‘Nobody,’ he ordered, ‘but
nobody
touch them while I am gone!’

Reliving his dream, he tore out of the room in hot
pursuit of Pommes Frites. Only this time, instead of chasing after him on a bicycle, he headed towards the ground floor, taking the stairs two at a time.

He could tell by the set of the ears, the angle of the tail, the rate at which he was travelling as he left the boardroom, Pommes Frites was in deadly earnest about something. Speed was of the essence.

But he was too late. Arriving in the courtyard via the Director’s private entrance, he realised the Smart car was no longer there. Neither was Pommes Frites. He carried on into the street, but there was still no sign of either.

It was some while before Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to the fourth floor, practically on his knees after a fruitless search of the area. The boardroom was empty of visitors; the long table, the chairs and other furnishings back in place.

To his intense joy Pommes Frites was waiting for him, looking none the worse for wherever it was he had been, but clearly suffering mixed feelings. Greetings over, he drew his master’s attention to a note on the table. It was from the Director, requesting their presence in his office.

‘There you are, Pamplemousse!’ boomed Monsieur Leclercq as they entered. ‘I was beginning to fear the worst. You will have heard the news, of course. Bourdel must have suffered some kind of mental breakdown. Apparently he came rushing out of the building like a being possessed, jumped into that wretched Smart car
of his and shot off at an incredible speed. The whole thing was extraordinary.

‘Those who witnessed it could scarcely believe their eyes. For some reason he seemed unable to stop. Wrestling with the steering wheel, he went twice round the fountain before shooting out into the rue Fabert.

‘Fortunately the gates were still wide open, otherwise they would have suffered untold damage. As it was, he only just managed to turn left without overturning before heading towards the Seine with Pommes Frites hard on his heels. ‘Have you any idea what it all means?’

‘I suspect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘the answer is much like those phrases one learnt by rote as a small child during English lessons. The one I particularly remember is: “the lady who is opening the window is my aunt.” In all my years I have never had occasion to use it. In fact, I am not sure I have ever seen any of my aunts open a window, even in the height of summer. The Auvergnat are wary of making rash decisions.’

The Director stared at him. ‘Don’t tell me you have an aunt involved in all of this, Pamplemousse. Why was I not informed?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse mentally counted up to ten. ‘In this particular case, monsieur,’ he said, ‘for “aunt” you need to substitute the word “uncle”.

‘The phrase I have in mind would be along the lines of: “
L’homme qui pouvrait réprondre á la question est
l’oncle de ma femme
.” The literal English translation being: “The man who could answer the question is my wife’s uncle.”’

‘Doucette?’

‘No, monsieur …’ manfully, Monsieur Pamplemousse avoided saying ‘try again’. ‘I am referring to Madame Leclercq …’

The Director stared at him as light slowly dawned. ‘Chantal. You mean … Chantal’s Uncle Caputo?’

‘
Exactement
! I think, monsieur, your troubles are over.’

Monsieur Leclercq crossed to his cocktail cabinet. The Roullet Très Hors Age had been replaced by a bottle of Gosset Grande Réserve Champagne. Removing it from the ice bucket, he carefully poured two glasses.

‘Four hundred years in one family,’ he said. ‘Continuity, Aristide; that is what France is all about. I had Véronique prepare it in readiness to celebrate Pommes Frites’ victory in the tasting, which I had assumed to be a foregone conclusion. But if what you say is true, it is splendid news. Even more cause for celebration.’

He raised his glass.

‘I don’t know how you do it, Pamplemousse.’

‘Sometimes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I wonder myself, although in this particular instance it is Uncle Caputo you should thank. My part was very minor.’

Thinking it over while he had been looking for
Pommes Frites, he realised it was little wonder Dubois had plotted to get Madame Grante out of the way, along with anyone else who might remember him from his previous attempt to sabotage
Le Guide
; namely himself and Pommes Frites, who had literally sunk his teeth into him when he had tried to escape.

‘Dubois wanted to satisfy himself that I wasn’t a danger,’ he said. ‘To that end he acquired the photographs of me feeding Pommes Frites. At the same time he started sending threatening notes to Madame Grante, thus effectively removing the three most dangerous elements in his plan.

‘Strangely enough, although I was instrumental in having him sent away the last time, we never actually met face to face. I only knew him from a photograph Madame Grante had in her apartment. She was very smitten at the time.’

‘I do remember that,’ said the Director. ‘Poor lady. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’

‘The only exception,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is a woman whose pet budgerigar has been threatened with a fate worse than death.

‘Once she was gone it left the way clear for Maria to insist you get rid of Rambaud, and that in turn left the door open for Dubois to move in. I imagine when we open up the gatekeeper’s lodge we shall find a lot of interesting pieces of equipment.’

‘It all sounds immensely complicated.’

‘Complicated, and yet remarkably simple,’ said
Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘During the time Dubois was in prison the idea must have taken root in his mind and begun to grow like a cancer.

‘Revenge is sweet, and there are all manner of other ways he could have brought it about. But having tried once and failed, he wanted to make absolutely certain it would work this time, with the added bonus of his being on the spot to witness this whole edifice collapse, taking everyone with it.

‘I suspect that when the beef is examined, you will find it contains poison. It must have been a desperate last move on his part, and when that failed he knew the game was up.’

Monsieur Leclercq opened a desk drawer. ‘I gather from Véronique that you have lost your watch, Aristide. I trust you will accept this replacement as a small token of my, and indeed
Le Guide
’s, gratitude and appreciation.

‘I fear it is not of French origin. Cupillard Riéme are no longer with us; a sign of the times, if you will excuse the pun. It is manufactured in Switzerland by a company called Jean d’Eve, but I am assured it keeps excellent time nonetheless.

‘It is a pity Véronique isn’t here to join in the celebration,’ he continued, waving aside Monsieur Pamplemousse’s thanks. ‘She asked if she could leave early. Something to do with being locked out of her own apartment on account of forgetting a password. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.’

As they left the building, Monsieur Pamplemousse was in the act of pocketing the watch case when he felt a familiar shape and realised his Cross pen had been there all the time. It must have slipped down inside the lining.

All of a sudden, everything seemed right with the world again. Taking out his mobile, he rang Doucette to tell her the coast was clear.

‘You may be back before me,’ he said. ‘I have to visit Véronique first. It sounds as though she needs me. She is unable to enter her apartment.

‘A locksmith …?

‘No, Couscous, it is more complicated than that. It has to do with champagne glasses being taller this year.

‘I will explain when I see you.’

Jacques rested his knife and fork and sat back. ‘I used to think,’ he said, ‘that as one grew older things would start to slow down, but the reverse is true. Whatever happened to November?’

‘Pommes Frites and I went back to the Auvergne,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Sadly, we missed out on Michel Bras. He was already closed for the winter.’

‘And December?’

‘Much the same. Except we spent Christmas with Doucette’s sister. No turkey, I’m afraid.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Jacques.

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘Agathe tried a new version of it this time. She served
tripes à la mode
de Caen
with jelly made from sparkling Cerdon wine and cranberries.’

‘And?’

‘
Désastre
! She burnt the jelly, would you believe?’

‘That can’t have been easy.’

‘Difficult, but clearly not impossible.’

‘Talking of disasters,’ said Jacques, ‘you know we found Dubois’s car …’

‘I read something about it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I gather the wreckage was in a wood near Melun. Paradoxically, that is where my
sister-in-law
lives.’

‘It’s a small world.’

‘Burnt out, I gather. No trace of the driver. It didn’t say any more.’

‘What’s one burnt-out car these days?’ said Jacques. ‘It isn’t news any more.

Putting the pieces together again, the boffins found the brakes had been disconnected and the accelerator pedal tampered with so that it jammed down. I can’t imagine who would have done a thing like that, can you?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head.

‘It must have been one hell of a drive.’

‘Horrendous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but on the other hand, an extraordinary feat.’

‘He committed over three hundred and fifty traffic offences on the way,’ said Jacques. ‘Ignoring red lights, travelling the wrong way down one-way streets, you name it. If the extradition order is granted, which I
very much doubt will happen; we will throw the book at him.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse paused over his soufflé Grand Marnier.

‘You know where he is?’

‘Your boss’s wife’s Uncle Caputo has taken him on as his personal driver,’ said

Jacques. ‘A bit ironical since he set out to eliminate him. But, as you once told me, he knows quality when he sees it. I can’t see Dubois ever bothering
Le Guide
again. It would be more than his life is worth. As it is, I gather his hair turned white overnight.’

They ate in silence for a moment or two while Monsieur Pamplemousse digested the information.

‘While you’ve been away,’ said Jacques, ‘I have been looking up pesticides.

According to the analyst, that stuff Dubois injected into Pommes Frites’ meat was Aldrin; it’s one of a group used against used against infestation by flies and mosquitoes … wireworms, caterpillars, that kind of thing.

‘It’s been banned in many parts of the world, but apparently your old gatekeeper has been using it for years; something to do with having caterpillars in his window box. He was grumbling like mad that someone had been at the packet.’