Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines (10 page)

Jacques shrugged. ‘I assumed as much. It is what I have heard too. But they could be anywhere … a safe deposit box … a bank vault … buried in the garden… who knows? Start any kind of search involving too many people and the media will be on to it like a shot. Once they smell a rat there’s no knowing where it will end.’

‘I know where they may be kept,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘You do?’ Jacques was suddenly all attention.

‘There is a safe in Madame Chavignol’s bedroom. Quite a sophisticated one.’

‘I won’t ask how you know.’

‘I wouldn’t tell you if you did,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Not for the moment anyway, but it would be good to see inside it…’ He broke off as there was a knock at the door.

‘
Entrez
!’ called Jacques.

An elderly waiter entered carrying a tray above his shoulder. His face lit up at the sight of Jacques’ visitor.

‘Monsieur Pamplemousse!’ He could hardly contain his excitement as he put the tray down. ‘I saw you on
television
the other night. It was on in the bar.
And
I saw your picture in all the
journaux
. It is a long time since that
happened
.

‘Remember all that nonsense about those girls at the
Folies
? So what if you did take some photographs of them through a hole in the ceiling? I remember saying to the wife – I doubt if the girls themselves cared two shakes of a fan dancer’s feather.’ 

Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he would ever be allowed to forget the episode. ‘Someone had it in for me.’

‘As for that Chavignol…’ The waiter placed the tray on the Jacques’ desk. ‘Him and his rug. My wife always says never trust a man who wears a toupee. She reckons he must have something to hide.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to suggest it could be a bald patch, but he let it go.

‘Did you know Chavignol had a toupee?’ asked Jacques, when the waiter had gone.

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. He had been as close to him as anyone and he certainly hadn’t spotted it. But then, his mind had been on other things.

‘Trust a woman to notice.’ Jacques opened a desk
drawer
and took out two Paris goblets, along with a couple of napkins and some plates.

Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the tray as he tucked one of the napkins under his chin: two lengths of
baguette
split down the middle, with ham, lettuce, tomato and
mayonnaise
folded in. Two
barquettes aux framboises
. A
pichet
of Côtes de Rhône. He gave a sigh of contentment.
Parfait
was the only word for it.

He reached for the nearest
baguette
. It was fresh from the second baking of the day; crisp and slightly warm to the touch. Breaking a piece off the end he handed it to Pommes Frites. It made up for the one he had missed.

Jacques set about pouring the wine. ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but given that photographs are involved, it does sound a bit like history repeating itself.’

‘There are certain similarities,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse.

When the photograph, supposedly taken by him through a hole drilled in the ceiling of the changing room at the
Folies
first surfaced he’d thought it was some kind of 
joke, but as other bits of planted evidence began to appear he knew better.

Normally it would have passed unremarked, but it so happened it not only coincided with the “silly season” in the newspaper world, but also at a time when the press were gunning for the police. They’d had a field day. Resignations were called for. Fed up with it all he had taken early retirement.

Then one day he had bumped into Monsieur Leclercq who had offered him a job on the spot, since when he had never looked back. Another example of coincidence at work, or had that, too, been meant?

‘The question is how to make sure these particular
photographs
are destroyed before they fall into the wrong hands,’ he said. ‘That really would be history repeating itself.’

‘If you’re thinking of a breaking and entering job,’ said Jacques, ‘don’t look at me. I’d have my work cut out
selling
that idea upstairs.

‘If we didn’t get it right first time the examining
magistrate
would be down on us like a ton of bricks. That’s not to say a little bit of private enterprise would be amiss. It would certainly be quicker in the long run – and safer.’

‘In other words, I’m on my own.’

‘Not necessarily; at least, not entirely. I could guarantee a certain amount of co-operation.’

‘The place is riddled with security,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Video cameras inside and out … gates at all the windows … state of the art door fittings… you name it. It’s worse than Fort Knox.’

‘It isn’t for me to suggest names,’ said Jacques. ‘You know them as well as I do. But it sounds like a job for Malfiltre. Just up his street in fact. They don’t come more enterprising and
privé
could be his middle name.’ 

‘He’s still in his old job?’ Lowering his voice, Monsieur Pamplemousse named one of the grander security firms in Paris.

‘The last time I heard he was their chief advisor. I think he probably pays them for the privilege. He might even have had a hand in designing the Chavignols’ system. You never know your luck.’

‘What would be in it for him?’

‘He owes us one,’ said Jacques. ‘In fact, you might say he’s permanently in our debt. Freedom is a very precious commodity.’

‘Same guarantees?

‘Turning a blind eye can be habit-forming. Besides, he’s much more use to us where he is instead of being behind bars. I can give you his number if you like.’

Jacques reached for a pen and pad.

‘How about the shells I sent you?’

‘They’re with forensic now.’

‘No prints other than Chavignol’s?’

Jacques gave a groan. ‘You must be joking. Have you ever tried getting prints off an oyster shell? France alone farms around 2,000 million a year and I doubt if you would get one usable print off the lot.

‘Anyway, it could have been done some time before. The
spéciales de claire
will stay fresh for anything up to ten days. And even if it had been opened, an oyster can close up again if it’s left. That apart, the poison could have been injected with the aid of a syringe.’

Helping himself to a
barquette
, Monsieur Pamplemousse held it up to the light. The
pâte sucrée
pastry shell had a
little
crème pâtissière
in the bottom and the raspberries had been given a light redcurrant jelly glaze; a classic
combination
. He took a bite.

‘Good?’ 

‘
Superbe
! Just as I remember them.’

‘Don’t forget,’ said Jacques, ‘we haven’t spoken, but I shall be waiting to hear.’

‘Good luck in the meantime,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily, nodding at the screen.

‘You don’t think I’m doing this for fun, do you?’ said Jacques. ‘It’s quality thinking time. It helps concentrate the mind. Based on my researches, I’ve been compiling a
mental
list of all the people who might have wanted Chavignol out of the way. It adds up to nearly as many as my score of pedestrians.

‘Have you still got your old 2CV?’ he asked, apropos of nothing.

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded.

‘You realise that if it had been developed by the
software
industry you would have been able to get a new one for the price of a good meal by now, and it would have done 500 kilometres to the litre.’

‘I know,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But it would have crashed twice a day for no apparent reason, and if you pressed the Help button it would have told you to reinstall the engine. I shall stick to my old one, thank you very much.’

‘
Touché
!’ Jacques returned to his keyboard. ‘I’ll be in touch if I get any news.’

Good though it had been to see Jacques, it was a relief to be out in the fresh air again. Taking in the timelessness of it all as he strolled past the
bouquinistes
lining the banks of the Seine, Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself
wondering
what difference it would have made if computers had been around in the days of the Revolution. Not a lot probably, except that everything would have taken much longer. The police had always been bogged down with paperwork, and that was especially true now they were 
computerised.

It was time to follow up his next line of approach. Tomorrow would do. He’d had more than enough for one day.

It was Monsieur Pamplemousse’s favourite time of the day; the few hours in the morning when Montmartre belonged to those who lived there. Not only was the Place du Tertre free of “artists” touting for custom, but it was even possible to see the steps leading up to the
Sacré-Coeur
from as far away as the Square Willette at the
bottom
of the hill.

In short, you could walk wherever you wanted to
without
bumping into hordes of tourists searching for things they would never find.

There had been an improvement since coaches were made to disgorge their passengers in the Boulevard Rochechouart to the south of the hill, but he and Doucette still occasionally talked of moving to somewhere less crowded and more convenient.

Every time an old
boulangerie
or a fruit and vegetable shop gave up the fight, only to be replaced by a chic
boutique
or a souvenir shop full of tiny Eiffel Towers and snowstorm models of the Sacré-Coeur, the subject came up again.

If it hadn’t been for the little Montmartrobus that stopped almost outside their apartment block, they might well have done so by now.

It was a switchback of a journey, full of hazards: driving at speed through gaps with barely a centimetre or so to spare on either side; travelling a half kilometre or more to cover what to a crow would have been less than a hundred metres. There was never a dull moment. But it did mean Doucette could do her shopping either in the Rue Lepic at 
one end of its run, or the Rue Ordener at the other, with the added bonus of a guaranteed seat on the way home.

But having said that, he had to admit he would miss the view across the rooftops of Paris from their balcony. The apartment was only a stone’s throw from the Moulin de la Galette, one-time haunt of Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec. Further up the hill, where the Rue Norvin joined the Rue des Saules, the scene in the early morning was much as it had been when Utrillo first painted it.

There was certainly a village atmosphere at the start of the day; locals exchanging greetings as they went about their business, sparrows taking advantage of clean water flowing down the gutters for a quick bathe while they could, restaurants laying out their tables for lunch, and not least, the streets leading down to the Boulevard de Clichy on the south side were briefly devoid of prostitutes and their pimps.

Following his usual route, Monsieur Pamplemousse cut through the Rue d’Orchamp and led the way downhill via the Place Émile-Goudeau, site of the old Bâteau Lavoir where Picasso and others had turned the world of art upside down.

On reaching the Place des Abbesses he bought a copy of
Le Parisien
, checked the day’s weather: imperturbable, but watch out for storms later; then retraced his steps a short distance before branching off and heading
north-westwards
towards the
Centre de Télévision et Ciné de la Butte
.

He wondered what he would find when he got there.

Jacques was right, of course. By all accounts there must be a good many people who wouldn’t have minded seeing Chavignol dead. But wishing someone dead was a far cry from actually carrying out the deed in cold blood. Besides, why choose such a spectacular way of going about it? It was almost as if whoever was responsible wanted to make 
sure it was witnessed by as many people as possible. If that were the case, they had certainly achieved their
objective
.

Pausing only to leave his mark on the
Belle Époque
entrance to the Metro, Pommes Frites followed on behind, keeping a watchful eye on his master who was clearly in a thoughtful mood and not to be trusted on his own.

Turning a corner, they both had to leap for their lives as a small white van bearing the film company’s logo shot past at speed, the driver hunched over the wheel.

In trying to avoid cannoning into a meter maid,
hovering
on the pavement pencil in hand, Monsieur Pamplemousse made a grab for the wing mirror of a tiny Smart car parked sideways on between two bollards. The air was suddenly filled with a cacophony of sound; a horn going full blast, a dog barking its head off.

‘
Oh, la, la
!’ An elderly lady with a shopping basket on wheels crossed herself. Two cats asleep on the roof of the car leapt into the air and made a bolt for it as though their end was nigh.

Pommes Frites gave them a withering look as they shot up an alleyway. It wasn’t as though the barking was real. It was simply the meaningless hodge-podge of noise some cars made when they were pushed. Something any
self-respecting
dog would know without being told.

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared after the van as it
disappeared
round another corner. It was probably nothing more than an association of ideas – the driver’s face had been partly obscured by a wide-brimmed hat – but if he hadn’t known better he would have sworn it was Monsieur Chavignol himself at the wheel. The impious notion entered his mind that perhaps having found the Pearly Gates closed he was hurrying to be first in the queue elsewhere. 

The
periwinkle
began writing in her book. He didn’t stop to ask her if she was recording the number of the van or the parked car; perhaps it was both.

Gates of a more mundane kind further along the street were also closed. Having presented his card to the
commissionaire
and stated his business, he waited while the man made a telephone call.

The spot normally occupied by the Facel Vega was taken up by a large scenery van. It could be why it had been moved so quickly – space must be at a premium.

Life seemed to be carrying on as usual. It might have been a country inn anywhere in France; the staff getting ready for lunch instead of making films. Pools of water below the window boxes showed they had only recently been watered. Drawn curtains across some upper floor windows at the far end of the courtyard were the only sign that anything untoward had taken place.

There had been a period in the seventies when whole areas had been razed to the ground with the brutal
relentlessness
of a Baron Haussman, but without his vision of a Grand Plan. Now it was a case of façades being preserved, while the buildings behind them were gutted and reshaped to meet modern needs. At least it meant it was possible to enjoy the best of both worlds.

He came back down to earth as the gates swung open automatically and an elegantly dressed black girl appeared and handed him a tag with his name in large type to clip on his lapel. Having produced a second blank one for Pommes Frites, she thought better of it and motioned them to follow her.

As she led the way along a corridor Monsieur Pamplemousse was struck by the informality of it all; each office they passed seemed to be decorated in a different style according the occupant’s place in the scheme of 
things. Cardboard models of sets were on display in the office of the Head of Designs. Head of Make-up had
chosen
to fill the room with wigs on display stands. The Head of Engineering had an antique illuminated neon sign on the wall advertising DUBONNET.

Only the door marked Head of Accounts was shut. The muted strains of Wagner’s
Tristan and Isolde
, written at a time when he, too, was having trouble balancing the books, probably reflected the mood inside.

The room Monsieur Pamplemousse eventually found himself ushered into was larger than the others. Apart from a “La Pavoni” coffee machine on a table in one corner, it was filled with antiques: an assortment of hunter watches in a glass-fronted display case on one wall, clocks galore on the other three. They were interspersed with mounted heads of animals he didn’t immediately
recognise
.

Pommes Frites eyed the latter nervously as he followed on behind.

At first sight Monsieur Pamplemousse mistook the
person
behind the desk for a cleaner using the office phone while the boss was out of the room. A half empty coffee cup, a black armband and an unlit cigar clenched between the teeth – temporarily removed while its owner motioned him to take a seat – put him straight.

‘Ramonacatspullupachair.’

It struck him forcibly that the holder of the post fulfilled all current P.C. requirements in one fell swoop. Short, fat, black, New York Jewish if he was any judge of accents, a dyed ginger wig which looked as though it wasn’t on straight, a tattooed symbol of the European Union on the right forearm: no section of the community could have had cause for complaint, unless you happened to be tall, white, and a French male. 

Prominently displayed in front of a bank of telephones, the name on an elongated triangular desk plate facing the door –
Ramona D. Katz. Directeur Général
– left him in no doubt as to whom he was addressing.

She caught him looking at it as she replaced the
receiver
. ‘I know what you’re thinking. My father had Spanish blood in him. I don’t know from where. You tell me.

‘Call me Randy. Everyone else around here does.’

It was like listening to a talking machine gun. ‘Randy…’ Monsieur Pamplemousse nervously tried it out.

‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ As she rose to her feet, hand outstretched, he realised he’d hardly noticed the difference. Given the cigar, he was irresistibly reminded of Monsieur Bibendum: short, round, amply endowed with rolls of flesh, but without the inevitable glass of
champagne
Le Guide’s
pre-war arch rival was always holding in those days.

What he did notice was a warm draught of hot air as she leant towards him. It was the nearest thing to a stink bomb from his childhood. Even Pommes Frites blinked twice before retreating to a far corner of the room. Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily sat down and began explaining the purpose of his visit.

‘Scumbag!’

Seeing the startled look on his face, she removed the cigar again and using the end of it as a pointer directed his attention towards a photograph on the wall. ‘Not you… him!’

‘You did not like Monsieur Chavignol,
Mademoiselle
?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hazarded a guess at her marital status. Given her world-class halitosis, no man could
possibly
share a bed with her and live to tell the tale.

‘Does the Pope like bagels?’

‘I have no idea,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse. 
‘But if you really disliked him so much, why are you here?’

‘Why do you do what you do?’ came the reply.

‘Because I don’t know anything else and because I
happen
to enjoy it,’ was the simple answer.

‘Right! Me? I work here because it keeps me in the style I’ve grown accustomed to. Can you think of a better
reason
?

‘You know something? I didn’t kill Chavignol if that’s what you’re thinking! I worked hard to get where I am. You think I want to throw it all away?

‘I tell you something else about him. He may have been a schmuck, but he made life easy for me. He could plant product the way nobody else could. I’ll give you an
example
.’

She tilted her chair so far back Monsieur Pamplemousse was worried it might topple over carrying her with it. Worse still, as her skirt rode up he wondered if she was about to put her feet on the desk. Alarmed at the thought, he averted his gaze, concentrating instead on a wall
cabinet
filled with antique objects, some of which he didn’t immediately recognise.

‘Got it in one! Potato peelers. Remember the item he did on them?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t, but then
neither
did he want to interrupt the flow of information.

‘The day after that programme was aired sales went up over 500%. They disappeared off the shelves. All over France! It’s what’s known as the “Chavignol Effect”. It got to the stage if he was going to mention something –
anything
– we had to send out an advance warning to the trade. Coffee makers, tinned herrings, ice cream, knives … you name it. You want to know why? Because he had authority. People listened to him.’

‘Was he paid by the manufacturers?’ 

‘Did I say that? I tell you, he was a one-off. He’s going to be missed.’

It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that it was time to redress the balance a little. Ignoring the possibility that it could be fatal, he took a deep breath and set out to list a few of Claude Chavignol’s faults. ‘From all I have heard…’

‘Listen!’ Mademoiselle Katz held up her hands. ‘You don’t have to tell me.

‘So what? Nobody’s perfect. When you got something that works you go with it. In this business we’re all cogs. Big ones … little ones. We depend on each other. It just so happens we’ve lost the biggest cog of all – the king-size one that drove all the others. That he should do this to me!’

‘Bad luck!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to sound more sympathetic than he felt.

‘Bad luck?’ Mademoiselle Katz shrugged. ‘Even for bad luck you need luck. But I tell you,’ she tapped her
forehead
. ‘I need this piece of shit hitting the fan like I need a hole in my
kop
.’

Dipping into a large open confectionery jar she removed what appeared to be a whole baklava and stuffed it into her mouth.

Monsieur Pamplemousse had difficulty deciphering her next remark. He made a stab at it.

‘How can you help?’ he repeated. ‘I’d like to look around, if I may. Get the feel of what actually happened the other evening.’

‘You want the Grand Tour, huh? I’d do it myself, but I got problems with my problems. There’s a big gap in the schedule and nobody to fill it. We gotta to move fast.’

Reaching out, she picked up a telephone receiver.

‘Jules? I have a
goy
here by the name of Grapefruit… Yeah. The very same… I want you to drop everything and take him on a guided tour. Show him anything he wants to 
see. Right…’

A second phone rang, then a third. Fastening the first under her chin she began juggling the other two, barking orders into first one, then the other.

Noting that she ended up putting the second phone back on the wrong cradle just as a fourth one rang, it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that if the studios were looking for an act to replace Claude Chavignol they need look no further.