Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines (14 page)

Although his licks were widely recognised as being a panacea for a variety of ills, it was a long time since he’d had occasion to apply the treatment to his nearest and dearest. Such intimacies, whilst appreciated for the thought that lay behind them, were not normally
encouraged
on account of the wetness factor. That being so, he was surprised to discover the taste was not that of
aftershave
– which he didn’t much care for, but that it bore a remarkable resemblance to a dish Madame Pamplemousse sometimes took out of her oven of an evening. You learnt something new every day. 

It being one of his favourites he tried again, and this time something detached itself from his tongue, wakening his master in the process.

Monsieur Pamplemousse sat up. Slowly gathering his senses as everything around him swam back into focus, he was able to shed a little more light on the subject.

Removing a half-chewed object stuck to his cheek, he immediately identified it as a marjoram leaf, that classic accompaniment to roast lamb.

Worse still, only a few metres away, sprigs of what had once been healthy sorrel and fennel plants protruded from the shattered remains of a pottery
jardinière
.

The fact that he had narrowly escaped being killed was one thing; a matter he was to dwell on more fully in the days to come. To lose a sixth of his herb garden in one fell swoop was something else again.

Retrieving one of the broken stems, he eyed it gloomily. It was all that was left of his prize tarragon. Doubtless whoever was responsible for the outrage would be well clear of the building by now, but if he ever caught up with the person or persons unknown, he would personally make sure they would wish they had never been born.

‘Doucette,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘you must promise me never, ever to let anyone into our apartment again without finding out exactly who they are and why they want to come in.’

‘But they seemed so nice, Aristide,’ said Doucette. ‘They told me they were from the
Mairie
. They had seen your picture in a
journal
and they wanted to inspect our balcony to make sure everything was safe.’

‘Did they show you any form of identification?’

‘They both had cards.’

‘And of course you read them to make sure they were genuine?’

‘Does anybody? It always seems so rude. Besides, I
didn’t
have my reading glasses on.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyes to high
heaven
. ‘What did they look like?’

‘They were both short and they had dark, pin-stripe suits. One of them looked a bit like that American film star – Edward G. Robinson. He was smoking a large cigar. I’m sure I would recognise them again if I saw them.’

‘I can tell you one place you needn’t bother looking,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gruffly. ‘That’s anywhere within twenty kilometres of the
Mairie
.’

‘They both had clipboards,’ said Doucette defensively. ‘It’s what made it seem so official.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse sighed. ‘Couscous, that is the oldest trick in the world. A clipboard is a symbol of authority. It will get you anywhere.’

‘Anyway,’ said Doucette, ‘they didn’t do any harm. 
They were in and out in a matter of minutes.’

‘I bet they were,’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘The one with the cigar said what a nice apartment we had. He apologised for dropping ash on the carpet as he went out.’

She looked so contrite he didn’t have the heart to
pursue
the subject any more. Besides, she had no idea what a narrow escape he’d had. If it wasn’t for Pommes Frites’ quick reactions… He shuddered; it didn’t bear thinking about. It would be better not to tell Doucette. She
wouldn’t
get any sleep if he did.

‘I blame the media,’ he said. ‘I can’t go anywhere at the moment without people recognising me.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Doucette, ‘it is because you have your name written in large letters for all the world to see.’

Reaching out, she removed the studio’s plastic name-tag from his jacket lapel and handed it to him. Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at it sheepishly.

‘What else have you been up to, Couscous?’ he asked, resisting the temptation to add ‘apart from putting out the welcome mat for two
loulous
who were clearly out to get me.’ He hadn’t exactly taken heed of Mademoiselle Katz’s warning himself.

‘I’ve been going through some old photographs.’ Doucette pointed to an album lying half open on the
dining
-room table. ‘Have you had a good day?’

‘Have I had a good day?’ It was hard to say. It was
possible
that somewhere amongst all the chaff there might be a few grains of wheat. He would need to sleep on it. In any case Doucette didn’t wait for an answer.

‘Do you remember this one you took of me on the Pont Neuf?’ she said. ‘It was just after you kissed me for the first time. On the back of the neck!’

‘But you liked it!’ 

‘I thought you were very forward. You had a moustache and it tickled. For a moment I thought it was a
mouche
.’

‘In those days,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘a
moustache
was considered to be a symbol of virility.’

‘As I recall, Aristide,’ said Doucette coyly, ‘you had other ways of proving that. Shaving it off didn’t seem to make a lot of difference.’

It wasn’t until some years later that he had discovered Doucette classed men with moustaches as being in much the same category as those with beards; they were not to be trusted. The truth was more prosaic. At the time he had grown it more as a symbol of authority following early promotion. He had shaved it off straight away, of course, but it had been a salutary lesson in how two people could live together for years and still not reveal their innermost likes and dislikes to each other.

Doucette turned a page. ‘Do you remember our first
holiday
in Nice? We stayed in a hotel near the flower market. You wouldn’t go in the water because you said the pebbles hurt your feet.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse decided it was time to change the subject. He reached into his pocket. ‘I have brought you a present, Couscous.’

‘It isn’t just for you,’ he added, glancing down at Pommes Frites, who was hard at work removing the dust from his person following the encounter in the place.

‘What a strange thing to buy,’ said Doucette, taking the bottle from him. ‘There are those amongst us,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘mentioning no names, who seem to have got themselves hooked on the smell of almonds.’

‘There are worse things,’ said Doucette. She picked out another photograph. ‘Remember when
you
smoked cigars?’ 

Monsieur Pamplemousse took himself into the kitchen before the conversation turned into a catalogue of his early imperfections. He returned a moment later with a small bottle of their own essence. Unscrewing the cap he placed it on the carpet.

Pommes Frites hardly bothered to look up from his ablutions.

‘Perhaps he has gone off it,’ said Doucette. ‘You can have too much of a good thing. Besides, he looks as if he has more important things on his mind.’

‘Talking of which…’ Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at his watch. ‘I need to go out again. Pommes Frites can stay and look after you in case those men come back.’

Doucette knew better than to ask, but her normal
bonne journée
was tempered with a quizzical look as she saw him off at the door.

Pommes Frites looked even more worried, and he went out onto to the balcony to make sure the coast was clear, keeping watch until long after his master had disappeared from view along the Avenue Junot.

It was some while since Monsieur Pamplemousse had last seen Eddie Malfiltre and clearly life had been kind to him during the intervening years. Greying at the temples, casually dressed in immaculately pressed slacks and black polo-neck sweater, he could have passed for a business executive who had made his money and opted for early retirement. The tan hadn’t come from a sun lamp, that was for sure, and when he moved he walked on the balls of his feet like an athlete.

Following a reasonably straight and narrow path
obviously
paid dividends. Knowing exactly where he stood, he didn’t beat about the bush. Apart from there being no paperwork involved, Monsieur Pamplemousse might 
have been making arrangements to have an interior
decorator
pay a call or be seeking an accountant’s advice on his pension arrangements.

‘Jacques has given me the address and the time
available
.’

‘Will it be enough?’

‘What has been put together can be taken apart again. I have a map of the camp and I know what to look for, but it will need as much time as I can get. Rather more than I have been given if that is possible. If you could win me, say, another twenty minutes it would be a plus. You know what the 7th is like; crawling with flics on the look-out for anything unusual. I need to know exactly what you are looking for, and ideally where it might be located.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse filled him in on the former. There was no reaction.

‘As for where you will find them… I strongly suspect they are in a safe hidden behind a picture of Chavignol in the main bedroom.’

‘And you can guarantee there will be no one at home?’

‘I am not in a position to guarantee anything,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But I will do the best I can, you have my word on that. It would not be in my interests to act otherwise. Give me your mobile number and I will let you know immediately if there are any changes.’

And that was it. Both sides had to take the other on trust.

On his way home Monsieur Pamplemousse phoned Jacques to tell him the meeting had taken place and it was all systems go.

‘One thing, can you tell me which division of the
cemetery
is earmarked for the actual burial?’

Jacques consulted his file. ‘The 17th… that’s just inside the main gate. He’ll be in good company, along with a lot 
of actors and writers. Why do you ask?’

‘Because Malfiltre could do with more time. Somewhere further away from the entrance would be better.’

‘In that case,’ said Jacques, ‘do you want the good news first or the bad?’

‘Give me the bad,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It’s nice being able to look forward to seeing light at the end of the tunnel.’

‘Whoever said Chavignol is being buried was speaking figuratively. He’s being cremated at Père Lachaise.’

‘What!’

Monsieur Pamplemousse mulled it over for a moment. ‘In that case we have more time than we thought.’

‘Wrong. Père Lachaise happens to be the only place in Paris where you can be cremated. The ashes will be
delivered
to his wife immediately afterwards and she will take them on to Montmartre cemetery for the actual burial.’

‘Why can’t he be buried at Père Lachaise?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It would make life a lot easier.’

‘Because that’s what everybody expects will happen. It was Chavignol’s express wish that it should be a quiet affair.

‘Dead men can’t be choosers. He’s lucky to get in
anywhere
at short notice. Someone must be pulling strings as it is. Death isn’t the great leveller it once was. Space is at a premium and it costs. Since local councils lost their monopoly on the ownership of the land, cemeteries have become big business. I doubt if Montmartre is in quite the same league, but the last I heard Père Lachaise were
charging
Fr100,000 for a 15 year lease on a 2m square plot. If they took that route think what a burden it will be on Chavignol’s nearest and dearest when the lease comes up for renewal.’

‘That’s a load of
conneries
and you know it,’ said 
Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There’s enough money there to buy a dozen plots. The whole thing stinks.’

‘Am I saying it doesn’t?’ said Jacques. ‘Why do you think I spend so much time knocking pedestrians down? If I didn’t have my computer I might run amok and do it for real.’

‘There must be something we can do to slow things up,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Are you sure you can’t drop a hint to the press. That would bring in the crowds…’

‘
Nyet, Nein, No…Impossible!
’ said Jacques. ‘When I say word has come down from on high, I do mean from on high. Life wouldn’t be worth living if it got back that I had tipped the media off. They would be there like vultures with their cameras and their notebooks. Madame Chavignol is regarded as a loose cannon. There is no knowing how she will react if she is crossed. Short of phoning rent-a-crowd to foul up the proceedings, there is nothing I can do. I would if I could, but I can’t.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse was listening with only half an ear, his mind going back over the day’s events. Jacques’ words had triggered off a thought. It was a wild one, but it might work.

‘You couldn’t rustle up fifty or so out of work Japanese actors could you?’

‘It’s funny you should say that,’ replied Jacques. ‘I have so many out of work Japanese actors on my books I don’t know what to do with them. They’re getting in my hair, which isn’t easy as there’s not much left…Look, I don’t run a theatrical agency.’

‘I am being serious.’

‘Tell me why and I’ll see what I can do.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse told him.

‘Leave it to me.’ Jacques suddenly perked up. ‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll see if I can do something about the real 
thing. It’s time the cemetery was on the tour circuit. Think of all the famous people buried there…Sacha Guitry, Emile Zola, Hector Berlioz, Francois Truffaut, Edgar Degas, Delibes, Offenbach, Nijinsky, Alexandre Dumas. Edmond and Jules de Goncourt, Stendhal…now Chavignol…’

Monsieur Pamplemousse cut him short. Jacques was a typical Aries; full of enthusiasms. He thought on his feet. In the old days they had worked well together.
Formidable
as some of their colleagues had it. But he needed to be kept in check.

‘How about the
Centre de Télévision
?’ he asked. ‘Have they been warned to steer clear of the press?’

‘They’re as anxious as anyone not to rock the boat,’ said Jacques. ‘The last thing they want is to have Chavignol’s death turned into a national day of mourning. It will only draw attention to their loss, so the less said about that the better as far as they are concerned.’

‘There will be sunny spells today,’ called Doucette as Monsieur Pamplemousse arrived home next morning with the
croissants
. ‘That is if the sun is patient enough to wait until it can find a gap in the clouds.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave an answering grunt. Quite frankly, as long as the rain held off he didn’t mind what the weather did.

‘A man in Toulouse has murdered his wife after being happily married for over 29 years,’ said Doucette. ‘No one knows why.’

‘Perhaps it was because she kept reading bits of the newspaper out to him when he had his mind on other things,’ muttered Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Speak up, Aristide,’ called Doucette. ‘I can’t hear you.’

‘Life is full of strange happenings,’ said Monsieur 
Pamplemousse. ‘There is no accounting for some of them.’

Doucette looked up from her copy of the
Le Parisien
as he entered the kitchen. ‘Aristide!’ she exclaimed. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been to the
boulangerie
looking like that. You haven’t even bothered to shave. What must they have thought? As for that old suit … you look like a
clochard!
’

‘Good,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That, Coucous, is exactly how I want it to be.’

Doucette gave a sigh. ‘I know there is no point in my asking, but I do hope whatever the problem is, it will soon be over.’

‘I hope so too,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse fervently. ‘For the moment, it is like today’s sky, a grey area. We must hope the forecast is correct and the sun will
eventually
break through.’