Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines (17 page)

‘Sometimes,’ said Jacques, ‘I don’t know how we’ve managed to survive all this time without your incisive mind at our disposal. I suppose the truth is they couldn’t find two people to replace you, so they got computers instead.

‘The point is… do you think she’ll have everything with her? Prints, negatives and all?’

‘I’m sure she will,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It doesn’t sound as though she’s going away for the
weekend
, and I can’t picture her being one of the world’s great readers. If she’s doing a flit she won’t want to risk being parted from them any longer than she has to. They’re much too precious.’

‘Fancy a trip to Marseille?’ asked Jacques. ‘City of
probity
, rectitude and seafood restaurants? I can fix it so that you catch an earlier flight. There’s one at 10.40. That’ll give you plenty of time to work out the lay of the land before meeting her plane and seeing where she goes. It should be just up your street.’

‘I would need to clear it with my Director first…’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dubiously.

Jacques’ mind was running on ahead of him as usual. The more Monsieur Pamplemousse thought about it the less the idea appealed to him. For a start he wouldn’t be able to take Pommes Frites on the plane.

‘Think
bouillabaisse
,’ said Jacques.

‘At this time in the morning?’

‘Well, for the time being, think restaurants. Think smells… the sea… the Miramar restaurant in the old port… 
Then think
bouillabaisse
…’

‘It won’t work,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘She’s almost bound to catch sight of me at some point, then the cat really will be out of the bag.’ Realising he hadn’t let on to Jacques the depth of his own involvement with Claudette, he wondered whether he ought to or not.

Deciding it was too early in the morning for confessions, he tried another tack.

‘In any case, I have no power. Suppose Marseille is only a stopping off point. Just suppose she moves on. She could take a plane or a boat to practically anywhere in the world.’

‘Anything is possible,’ admitted Jacques. ‘But if that’s the case, why go there in the first place? I tell you
something
else the computer has thrown up. Guess when the booking was made?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had no idea. He was
beginning
to lose all sense of time. He made a wild guess. ‘Yesterday?’

‘Three weeks ago…’

‘Three weeks…
Morbleu
!’

‘Exactly my sentiments. Look, if you don’t fancy being on your own I could probably arrange help at the other end, but that would take a bit of explaining. The less
people
involved the better. I might even go myself. I could do with a spot of fresh air. Do you want a short list of all the possibilities, or a long one…’

‘Apart from anything else,’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘there has already been one attempt on my life…’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously. Either that or a warning shot that was too close for comfort.’

‘Sapristi! When?’ 

Monsieur Pamplemousse told him.

‘But who would want to do that?’

‘Quite a few people over the years, I imagine. But in this particular instance it must be someone who feels I may be getting close to the truth. Not only that, but someone who has killed once and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.’

‘Or with sufficient clout to have someone do it for him,’ added Jacques.

‘Going back to the problem in hand,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We must stop Madame Chavignol
leaving
Paris at all costs.’

‘Maybe we could pull her in at the airport?’ Jacques tried another tack. ‘We could get Security to go through her bags.’

‘Would that be wise?’

‘Just clutching at straws. You’re right, though. Once those boys get their hands on the pictures who knows where they might end up? On their canteen wall most
likely
! It could defeat its own object.’

‘Anyway,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘they won’t be in her hand luggage. If my hunch is right they’ll be in the baggage hold of the plane.’

‘Bags can go missing,’ mused Jacques. ‘It happens all the time. It’s one of those things people take for granted. They only grumble when their own case gets lost. Have you ever been behind the scenes at Charles de Gaulle? It’s like watching one of those giant machines the P.T.T. use for sorting mail, except it’s spread over a much bigger area. The wonder is not so much that things go astray; it’s the fact that it doesn’t happen more often.’

‘There’s one big snag,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Hers won’t be the only item of Louis Vuitton luggage heading for the South of France. You can bet your life on that. Identifying the right one and getting it out of the
airport
 
without doing a lot of explaining would be
something
else again.’

While Jacques was talking his mind had been racing on ahead. ‘I have an even better idea.’ He borrowed a leaf out of the Director’s book. ‘Perhaps I could run it up the
flagpole
and see what you think.’

It was also a case of role reversal. He was now the one thinking on his feet, and give him his due, Jacques was proving a good listener.

‘I can’t see any reason why it shouldn’t work,’ he said at last. ‘We shall need to play it carefully and not tread on too many toes. It’ll be a question of territories.

‘We shall need a couple of extra bodies, but that
shouldn’t
be a problem. There are so many identity checks these days, what’s one more?’

‘I can look after the check-in side of things,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That will save one. I’m afraid the rest will be up to you.’

‘Leave it with me,’ said Jacques. It was fast becoming his signing off phrase.

‘See you at Charles de Gaulle airport. Outside Terminal 2D. The flight leaves from gate 70, so it will be somewhere near the Paris end of the terminal. Better make it eleven
fifteen
to be on the safe side.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Don’t forget to bring Pommes Frites.’

‘As if I would!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘And drive carefully!’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had two calls to make in the 7th before joining the
Périphérique
and then the Al to Charles de Gaulle. Despite the delay he still reached the airport first. 

Jacques looked slightly put out. ‘If this place gets any bigger there won’t be much point in taking a plane,’ he complained. ‘It will simply be a case of calling in for a refuel and a cup of coffee, then driving where you want to go. 3000 hectares. That’s a third the size of Paris!’

As they entered the vast Departures hall he took one look at the people milling around. ‘It could end up being quicker too.’

Taking advantage of a relatively quiet spot behind a magazine store, he produced a selection of clip-on
identity
tags. Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised the photo on his as having recently appeared in one of the
journaux
. Jacques must have moved fast.

‘You are now a temporary member of Special Services Group – Section F. It will get you most places you need to go, but not necessarily all. If anyone asks what you are doing give them a good earful. Tell them you are not at
liberty
to say.’

‘Do the
Sûreté
know about it?’

Jacques sighed. ‘Questions, questions! Let’s just say those who matter do. Look, as I’ve said before, there are so many checks going on at the moment they are beginning to be taken for granted. Just don’t put it on your CV.’

‘What CV?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They didn’t have such things in my day.’

He slipped the tag into his pocket. There was no point in attracting attention unless it became absolutely
necessary
. In his experience “those who mattered” would
probably
deny all knowledge of him if it came to the crunch.

‘I’ve got one for “you know who” as well,’ said Jacques. ‘Just to be on the safe side. Do you think he’ll mind?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at the photograph as he attached it to Pommes Frites’ collar. ‘He ought to be pleased. He’s aged a bit since this was taken.’ 

‘You’re sure he won’t have forgotten what he’s
supposed
to be looking for?’

‘Now you
are
likely to offend him,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, I gave him a little reminder on the way.’

He glanced up at the nearest bank of monitors. Most of the flights, including the 12.35 AF7674 to Marseille, were scheduled to leave on time.

Jacques led the way up a flight of stairs to their left where a balcony outside the Club Class lounge afforded an overhead view of the whole of the check-in area. It could have been purpose built.

The check-in section itself was momentarily empty, which was more than could be said for Economy. There were long queues at all the desks.

Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what his old
mother
would have made of it all. He could hear her voice: “I can’t think where they’re all going.” But then she had never been up in an aeroplane, or travelled outside the Auvergne, let alone seen the sea.

While they were waiting they went through the plan once more.

No one entering or leaving the lounge seemed surprised by the presence of two men with a large Bloodhound. The few who happened to glance their way looked reassured rather than apprehensive. It was a sign of the times.

At 11.52 Madame Chavignol appeared, immaculate as ever. Figures wandering aimlessly about the hall gave way automatically as she headed towards the check-in area.

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded in her direction. ‘She’s here. Steel grey tailored suit, low heeled travelling shoes. You can’t miss her.’

‘Not exactly deep mourning,’ murmured Jacques, unconsciously echoing Monsieur Pamplemousse’s own 
thoughts when he had first met Claudette.

A man pushing a trolley piled high with luggage
followed
her. ‘Who’s that?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his camera. ‘Chavignol’s ex-gofer, man-of-all-work, general factotum, faithful retainer…’

‘Are you sure about the faithful bit?’ said Jacques, as they passed below them. ‘I don’t think much of his suit, but if the Hermès tie is anything to go by it looks as though he could be on to a good thing. Do you think he’s travelling too?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘Who knows? As for the tie, it goes with the job.’

He realised it was the first time he had seen Pascal in his entirety. He was taller than he had pictured; but then Chavignol had been too, which figured. It was not
dissimilar
to two people entering into a relationship having spent the first few days gazing at each other full-face from across a succession of restaurant tables; sometimes the wider view, or an unexpected expression caught when they weren’t looking could prove a bit of a let down. By then, it was often too late.

So it was with Pascal. In contrast to his ex-boss he looked down-at-heel; seedy. It was amazing the difference a good tailor could make.

Was
he going too? The same thought had gone through his own mind more than once since he’d heard how long ago the flight had been booked.

He gave Jacques a nudge.

A little further down the hall another trolley had appeared from out of nowhere. If anything, it looked even more heavily laden than Pascal’s. So much so, whoever was in charge seemed to be having difficulty maintaining a straight line. 

‘It looks like an unguided missile of the very worst kind,’ said Jacques.

The two trolleys began closing in on each other, both apparently oblivious to the other’s presence. Seen from above, short of one or the other taking last minute evasive action, the outcome was a foregone conclusion; an
accident
in the making. Luckily no one down below seemed to notice or take it upon themselves to interfere.

It was all over in a matter of seconds. Both parties
recovered
and went on their way.

Monsieur Pamplemousse breathed a sigh of relief. During the brief exchange of words following the collision he had taken a quick snap of the scene. The Director’s camera was proving invaluable. Besides, Malfiltre might like one for the record.

‘The man pushing the second trolley looked familiar,’ said Jacques thoughtfully as it disappeared.

‘Did he now?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It’s a small world.’ He watched as Claudette and Pascal reached the check-in desk.

‘Mission accomplished?’ asked Jacques.

‘Pommes Frites will let you know in a little while.’

Hearing his name Pommes Frites made as though to get up, but at a signal from his master he remained where he was.

‘Will it be a walk-on gate, or one where they get bussed out to the plane?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse watched Claudette hand her ticket in at the desk.

‘It’s all taken care of,’ said Jacques. ‘It’s buses. The
further
away from the terminal building they are the better.’

‘Pity about the case. Malfiltre reckoned it’s one of Louis Vuitton’s best and he should know.’

‘You always did have a sentimental streak,’ said Jacques. 

‘I hate waste.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse waited until Claudette had completed her registration. Clearly Pascal wasn’t travelling with her. On the other hand, their
perfunctory
goodbyes after a brief chat left him with the
feeling
that it was only a matter of “watch this space” before they next met up.

He glanced at his watch. ‘We ought to be on our way too. It would be a shame to miss the flight.’ 

‘An elegant solution, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I must congratulate you.’

‘It had a lot to recommend it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse modestly, ‘but I couldn’t have done it alone. I had help from an old colleague, along with
someone
who was once in the
milieu
, and Pommes Frites of course. In effect it was an arm’s length transaction. Once everything was in position all the dirty work was done for us.’

‘I cannot wait to touch base with you,’ continued the Director. ‘But never forget, the first aim of
Le Guide
is to report on food.
Michelin
, originally given away free when it first came out in 1900, was ostensibly published for the benefit of motorists, although in fact its underlying aim at a time when there were only 3000 registered cars in the whole of France, was to get people to become more motor minded so that in turn they,
Michelin
, would sell more tyres.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared across the dining room table at his boss.

He was used to the sudden flights of fancy; the
unforeseen
excursions into uncharted waters. Indeed, there were times when it was hard to keep pace with them. But
seeing
he had travelled all the way to Monsieur Leclercq’s country home some thirty kilometres outside Paris for the express purpose of bringing him up to date on the current crisis over the photographs, it seemed a bit of a
non-sequitur
.

His host had also begun pulling strange faces, screwing 
up his eyes as though in pain, and for a brief moment Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he had suffered a minor stroke brought on by the excitement of the occasion. With that possibility in mind he decided to humour him.

‘I have always understood that was especially true
following
the introduction of the pneumatic tyre,’ he said. ‘In their early editions
Michelin
placed more emphasis on garages than they did on restaurants.’

Monsieur Leclercq visibly relaxed. ‘That is why our founder, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, stuck to his
bicyclette
. His theory was that people who used such a basic method of propulsion arrived at their destination far hungrier than those who travelled by train or car, and therefore
appreciated
a good meal all the more. For many years he refused to give up hard tyres as a matter of principle. In those days, of course, bicycle tires were glued to the rim anyway, but he viewed the arrival of pneumatic tyres with the utmost suspicion, believing it was a sign that France was going soft physically as well as spiritually.

‘Times change; even the two hour break for
dejeuner
is no longer sacrosanct.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. He hoped the Director’s last remark didn’t mean their own lunch was going to be cut short. He had already told Doucette he wouldn’t be wanting any dinner.

He relaxed as an elderly lady wearing a white overall and a chef’s toque materialised alongside him bearing a plate of
risotto
. He hadn’t even realised she was in the room. It was no wonder the Director had changed the
subject
so abruptly.

His spirits rose still further when she produced an ancient grater and began adding shavings of white truffle across the top of the rice. The smell of truffles mingling with that of the cheese was heaven sent. 

‘Parmigiano-reggiano,’ said the Director of the latter, ‘cut from the wheel. Maria refuses to buy so-called Parmesan that has already been grated. It is the same with the rice. Her choice is
vialone nano
. Nothing else will do.

‘Please go ahead. It is one of her specialities – what our American friends would call her “signature dish”. She will be most upset if you allow it to spoil. Is that not so, Maria?’

‘
Si, si, signor Leclercq
.’

‘She is absolutely right, of course.’ The Director reached for a decanter of red wine and began filling the glasses while his own needs were attended to. ‘In preparing a
risotto
there is a brief moment when everything reaches perfection; the moment critique. It is somewhat akin to scrambling an egg or making an omelette; another second and you have left it too late.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse was only too pleased to obey his host’s command. The dish was heavenly. The rice must have swelled up to three times its original volume, yet it remained firm and creamy, and the first truffles of the
season
were beyond reproach. His only regret was that Doucette couldn’t share it too.

‘Please forgive my digression,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, when they were alone once more. ‘Maria is a lovely lady; a trifle taciturn perhaps, but
une perle
, a proverbial “treasure”. Like all “treasures” she has her funny little ways and nothing you say or do will change that. Fortunately, her particular talents lie in the realms of gastronomy – so we don’t have to put all the pictures straight after she has been round with the feather duster. However she is inclined to appear when you least expect it. For one of such generous dimensions she makes remarkably little noise when she is going about her work. She insists on wearing carpet slippers so that she won’t disturb us, but I suspect it is so that she can hear what is 
going on more clearly.’

‘It is far better to be safe than sorry,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘“You cannot sew buttons on your neighbour’s mouth”, as the old Russian proverb would have it,’ said the Director.

‘Now, to return to the subject in hand…’

Hearing what he thought was the sound of approaching carpet slippers, Monsieur Pamplemousse beat Monsieur Leclercq to it.

‘Just recently,’ he said, ‘I was reading about the late Henry Ford. As I am sure you are aware, his great
advertising
ploy when the Model T first came on the market was that customers could have any colour they liked provided it was black.’

It was Monsieur Leclercq’s turn to look puzzled. ‘Yes, yes, Pamplemousse,’ he said. ‘We all know the reason for that. He wanted to turn out as many cars as he could in the shortest possible time.’

‘Ah, but why choose black,
Monsieur
? Why not green or blue, or even red?’

‘I really don’t know,’ said the Director, in a voice that suggested he didn’t really care either.

‘Because all the other colours took longer to dry,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

He felt a wet nose against his free hand. It was Pommes Frites after all. Certain among them were hoping for
seconds
.

‘I will have a word with Maria,’ said the Director,
noticing
traces of rice on Pommes Frites’ chin. ‘You say he played a role in the whole affair?’

‘Without him,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply, ‘I doubt if we would be sitting here today.

‘It was one thing knowing the photographs were in 
Madame Chavignol’s luggage. Positively identifying the particular suitcase from amongst all the others once it had entered the system would have been another matter entirely. For all we knew there could have been many identical cases being processed. It had to be tagged in some way before she checked in.

‘In the event I was able to call on the services of
someone
who had actually handled the case and knew which one to look for. I won’t bore you with the details, but on the way to the airport I called in at Bon Marché, and for a modest outlay of 1.68 Euros in their food department I purchased a particular brand of almond essence that Pommes Frites identified with the scent inside the oyster shell. He had it fixed in his mind as being a vital clue. He was absolutely right, of course, although the reason
wasn’t
clear to the rest of us at the time.

‘By means of subterfuge a liberal dose was planted on the outside of the case before it was checked in, so that Pommes Frites could pick it out with his eyes shut if
necessary
.’

Monsieur Leclercq produced a tiny dictating machine from an inner pocket. ‘I must make a note of that,
otherwise
we may have trouble with Madame Grante in accounts when you submit your next P.39. Please
continue
.’

‘Through the offices of my ex-colleague in the
Sûreté
, the three of us were able to station ourselves near the plane before the baggage arrived…’

‘I have an early edition of
Michelin
,’ broke in the Director, ‘which has a symbol for hotels that were plagued with bed bugs.’

Taking the hint this time, Monsieur Pamplemousse entered into the spirit of things. ‘Squashed or otherwise?’ he asked. ‘I trust they didn’t award the hotels rosettes if it 
was the latter.’

‘No, Pamplemousse, they did not!’ said the Director crossly. ‘It was meant as a warning.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse heard another shuffling sound behind him. This time it was for real and it was accompanied by yet another delicious smell. Clearly the moment for serious discussion had passed.

Monsieur Leclercq leaned across the table. ‘Another window lost,’ he hissed.

A bit rich, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse,
considering
the number of times the Director had monopolised the conversation. On the other hand… the smell drew closer.

‘I thought we would meet here so that we would enjoy peace and quiet,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, above the sound of comings and goings from the kitchen. ‘My wife is in Paris today visiting a fashion show in the Avenue Montaigne. Chanel, I believe. Let us hope she doesn’t bump into Madame Pamplemousse. They may put their heads together and exchange notes.’

‘I think that is highly unlikely,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He didn’t suggest it was more likely to happen in Galeries Lafayette. The irony would be lost.

‘
Suprême de pintade et raviolis aux poireaux
,’ announced the Director as plates arrived on the table. ‘Yet another of Maria’s specialities. She uses only the white of leeks,
lightly
braised to form a base for marinated breasts of
guinea-fowl
, grilled, as you will see, until they are golden brown, then thinly sliced. The sheets of ravioli covering the whole are homemade.
Crème fraîche
, chicken stock and butter is used to make the sauce. Both the
crème fraîche
and the
butter
are from Echiré.’

He rose to replenish the glasses. ‘I trust you find this wine to your satisfaction…’

‘
Parfait, Monsieur
.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse had 
already identified it as being from the Rhône Valley, but it was not one he’d had the good fortune to come across before.

‘It is a Côte Rotie d’Ampuis from Guigal,’ said the Director. ‘A blend of his six top cuvées. Need I say more? It could hardly enjoy a better pedigree.’

Not for the first time it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the Director had missed his vocation. He would have made an impeccable
maitre
d
’; especially if Maria had been doing the cooking.

‘You are lucky with your “treasure”,
Monsieur
,’ he said, as she disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

‘Alas, it is only a temporary arrangement,’ said the Director. ‘Her husband passed away recently and she has no one to cook for. She is simply filling in.’

‘He must have died a happy man,’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse, dabbing at his lips with a napkin having sampled the guinea fowl. The Director was right about the sauce. The characteristic nutty flavour of the Echiré
crème fraîche
came through. There was no denying the
importance
of prime ingredients.

‘Those in the village do say he passed away with a smile on his lips and a lump of spaghetti Bolognaise stuck to his chin,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Unfortunately she has decided to return to Italy to be with her children. We shall certainly miss her. So what happened next?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse speared another portion of his guinea fowl before continuing. It was a pity to mar the pleasure with too much talk.

‘Once the luggage arrived on the tarmac,’ he continued after a moment or two, ‘Pommes Frites set to work and immediately homed in on the target. From that moment on events followed an established pattern. Any
unidentifiable
item of baggage is an object of suspicion and treated 
accordingly.’

‘How about labels?’ broke in the Director. ‘Surely Vuitton supplied Madame Chavignol with a matching set of labels for her name and address.’

‘Labels?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse innocently. Reaching into a jacket pocket, he produced a
leather-bound
tag and handed it across the table.

‘As I was saying, a tried and tested procedure is put into place. The object is first removed to a safe location, and the area cordoned off. Explosive material is placed beneath it, and the whole is then covered with sound deadening material.

‘It is much like making a
pommes tourte
, except instead of the apple pie being consumed, the explosive device is
detonated
and the case and its contents blown to smithereens.

‘The area is then cleared and tidied up, the tape removed, and life goes on. It has become such a common occurrence it doesn’t even get a mention in the press. I doubt if even many people on the plane knew it had
happened
.’

Monsieur Leclercq reached for a small hand-bell. ‘I shall be interested to hear what gave you the idea as to the whereabouts of the photographs in the first place, Aristide. But first we have a little green salad to clear the palate, along with some Pont l’Evêque cheese to go with the rest of the wine.’

Sensing a longer period between their arrival and the serving of the dessert, Monsieur Pamplemousse seized the opportunity to fill in the details, including Claudette’s arrival at the airport.

‘And you think this Pascal will be joining Madame Chavignol in Marseille?’ asked the Director.

‘I think she will be joined there,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse non-committally. ‘He will be driving down 
to Marseille in his Facel Vega.’

‘In which case, why not take the luggage?’