Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines (18 page)

‘The simple answer to that is that neither probably
trusted
the other.’

‘It will not be a happy moment when they eventually meet up,’ mused the Director.

‘You can say that again,’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, picturing Claudette waiting by the carousel for her case to emerge. While Monsieur Leclercq was digesting the notion, he helped himself to another wedge of Pont-l’Evêque. It was creamy yellow, glistening with fat and stronger than usual.

‘It comes from a small farm in Normandy.’ The Director couldn’t resist breaking off from his reverie. ‘One of the very few, perhaps 2% of the total, who still produce it by hand.’

‘Did you know that the man credited with the invention of electronic television in the United States got the idea when he was only fourteen years old?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Until that moment people in many other parts of the world had been trying to perfect a means of transmitting pictures with the aid of revolving discs.

‘His name was Philo T. Farnsworth and one day he was ploughing a field on his father’s farm in Idaho when he happened to glance round to view his handiwork. Seeing the lines of dead straight furrows stretching out across the landscape caused him to wonder about the possibility of breaking up a picture up in the same way, line by line, and transmitting it electronically.’

‘I didn’t know that, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director, pouring the last of the wine. ‘But it seems to me to be a particularly useless piece of information in the present context. Why are you telling me?’

‘Simply to answer your earlier question, Monsieur, and 
to make the point that ideas are often things of the moment, triggered off quite by chance. The muse strikes in surprising ways. Had Doucette not shown me some old snaps taken in Nice it would never have occurred to me where the photographs might be kept.’

‘And you really think they have all been blown to Kingdom Come?’

‘That is my hope and belief,
Monsieur
, and I see no
reason
to think otherwise.’

Monsieur Leclereq got up and crossed to the mullioned window. ‘It is amazing how a single sunbeam can light up the day,’ he said, gazing out at the tranquil scene beyond the boundaries of his estate; orchards shedding their leaves and further still, now that the early morning mist had cleared, there were fields where sheep could be seen grazing. ‘There have been moments of late, Aristide, when I feared the worst. I really find it hard to find words to express how much I, and many others, are in your debt.’

‘Then I suggest you do not try,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gently. ‘Never forget I also had a vested interest in making sure the photographs were destroyed.’

‘And what you are also saying is that now her
husband’s
ashes are safely below ground Madame Chavignol has gone off into the blue with his assistant, Pascal, to begin a new life.’

‘I think that is what both of them would like everyone to believe,
Monsieur
.’

‘So that is that.’ The Director could hardly contain his relief as he returned to the table and began replenishing the glasses.

‘Not quite,
Monsieur
. There was another point to my analogy with television. It seemed to me an odd twist of fate that Chavignol chose to use that medium to put his scheme into practice.’ 

‘You have lost me, Aristide,’ said the Director. ‘Surely, much as one disliked the man one can hardly accuse him of committing suicide on air.’

‘No,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But he may end up facing a charge of murder, or at the very least being an accessory to one. It is my belief that he is still alive. Alive and well and, along with his wife, thinking they have got away with it.

‘Furthermore, when the powers that be catch up with events I predict there will be a move to have the ashes recovered.’

‘But what would be the point?’

‘I think they will find they are Pascal’s. They can work wonders in the laboratories these days. Identification will only be a matter of time.’

‘I can hardly believe what you are saying,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I assume you must have good reason.’

‘Several things set my mind working,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘First of all, when I visited Madame Chavignol she told me a direct lie. It probably slipped out and was too late to correct – I did a similar thing when I denied having a card shortly after having shown one to the security camera – but she said she had been watching the programme at home, whereas I know for a fact she was in Chavignol’s flat at the studios.

‘I think she was there with the express purpose of
making
sure they weren’t disturbed when he was brought up. My belief is that Pascal was already beyond help having died of cyanide poisoning while watching the show with her.

‘I think it was more than fortuitous that the normal Staff Nurse was on holiday at the time. I think it was planned that way.

‘It always bothered me that Pommes Frites had become 
so fixed on the smell of almond essence as opposed to the real thing. The simple truth is that he was right all the time. That was what had been injected into the shell of the oyster used on the show.

‘For a magician of Chavignol’s calibre the whole thing, the feigning of his death, the carrying out of a quick change into Pascal’s clothes before the arrival of the
Sapeurs-Pompiers
, would have been child’s play.

‘A chance remark by a certain gentleman in a Montmartre sex shop also set my mind working. He
mentioned
having had a big order from Marseille of all places.

‘Then there was the car – the Facel Vega Excellence. It was Chavignol’s pride and joy. He would be hard put to find another like it. I suspect that is why early on he
planted
the fact that Pascal would be getting it when he died.’

‘In that case, wouldn’t that have been even more reason for them to have gone away together taking everything with them?’

‘I think for the time being at least they needed to keep up the pretence that Claudette’s relationship with Pascal was still entirely innocent. That was why he was so happy to flaunt himself driving around in it, posing as Chavignol’s one time assistant.

‘That also aroused my suspicions. By all accounts the Excellence is not an easy car to drive and the night I saw it whoever was at the wheel handled it with great aplomb, which certainly didn’t fit in with what I’d been told about Pascal’s driving.’

Feeling inside his jacket again, Monsieur Pamplemousse took out some sheets of A4 paper and handed them to the Director.

‘More souvenirs, Aristide?’

‘Your new camera came in very useful, Monsieur. These are only rough prints on plain paper, but the first picture 
shows a close-up of some hands on the steering wheel. They are not Pascal’s; they are much too delicate. Pascal has the hands of a manual worker. If you look at the
second
photograph you will see what I mean. It is a printout taken from a television picture of a photo frame in Madame Chavignol’s bedroom. At first I thought she was keeping it by her bed because of the association they had formed, but I think the explanation is more prosaic. Chavignol was a perfectionist and he needed it for getting into character; making sure he had a false moustache in exactly the right position. He left nothing to chance.

‘The third one was taken at the airport. Once again, you will see it is Chavignol’s hands pushing the trolley, not Pascal’s.

‘Blown-up on the correct paper, I think they will
provide
crucial evidence.’

‘But why? What prompted all this in the first place?’

‘I suspect Chavignol knew things were closing in. The
Brigade Mondaine
had their sights fixed on him and they weren’t going to give up in a hurry. His time was running out and he couldn’t face the thought of being sent to prison, possibly to spend the rest of his life behind bars.’

‘Will the two of them ever be found?’ asked the Director.

‘I think it is only a matter of time,’ said Monsieur. ‘In some respects the forces of retribution are already at work. They still have each other and that may turn out to be
punishment
enough. It is another strange twist of fate that to all intents and purposes Chavignol has effectively killed himself off. His wife will inherit all his money, and he doesn’t even have the benefit of the photographs to fall back on.’

He broke off as the familiar sound of something being whipped drew near and Maria appeared from the
direction
of the kitchen clutching a large unlined copper bowl 
and a whisk.

As soon as she reached the table she began spooning the creamy yellow contents of the bowl into some
open-topped
glasses.

‘
Zabaglione
,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘made in the
traditional
manner with egg yolks, sugar and Marsala beaten together over a low heat. As with the
risotto
, it needs to be eaten at once. Is that not so, Maria?’

‘
Si, si, Signor Leclercq
.’ Maria made a hasty exit only to reappear moments later with a plate of puffed-up fritters, golden brown and fresh from the pan.

The Director gave a sigh of pleasure mixed with
sadness
. ‘It is one of the blessings of France, Aristide, that we are bordered by so many other countries, each with its own distinctive cuisine. Italy, Spain, Germany, Belgium, and Switzerland. In one way and another all of them, even Switzerland with its
fondue
, have influenced our cuisine, but undoubtedly Maria’s homeland has contributed most of all.

‘In more ways than one, in the short time she has been with us she has given us much food for thought. You could say she has broadened our horizons. It is a shame our Founder never got as far as Italy on his
bicyclette
.’

‘She has a wonderfully deft touch with a whisk,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, scraping his glass clean.

‘Do not remind me,’ said the Director gloomily. ‘Again, she insists on using her own traditional unlined copper bowl. Finding a replacement for her will not be easy.’

He rose from the table. ‘I was going to suggest rounding things off with a
digestif
, but in the circumstances I think a celebratory glass of champagne is called for.’

Monsieur Leclercq was gone rather a long time and when he returned he was carrying a glistening bottle in one hand and Maria’s copper bowl in the other. 

‘I thought Pommes Frites might like to join us,’ he announced.

‘I don’t suppose he’s ever eaten
zabaglione
before,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There is a first time for
everything
.’

He recognised the Gosset label on the champagne. It was his favourite. For all his quirky ways the Director was a kind and thoughtful host. He threw a balloon in the air.

‘I was thinking while you were out of the room,
Monsieur
. You have not been over-fortunate with your lady cooks in recent years. There was the English girl, Elsie, the one who specialised in a dish called Spotted Dick. As I recall, she left in somewhat of a hurry. Now Marie. Perhaps it is time to try a change of sex.

‘I may be able to put you in touch with someone who will almost certainly be looking for a job. I have sampled his cooking and I am certain it would meet with your approval, although I doubt if his last employers will be able to provide references.’

It was a small return for such a delicious meal; really more of a
quid pro quo
. He didn’t mention Monsieur Leclercq had also experienced Yang’s cooking, for fear it might prejudice him.

He just hoped the Director’s newfound horizons were sufficiently catholic to extend beyond the Western world. If they didn’t already, he had a feeling they soon would.

It was his good deed for the day.

The drive back to Paris wasn’t the best he’d ever had. There were too many things on his mind. Good things and bad things. One way and another he had hardly stopped all the week. Unlike his 2CV, which didn’t exactly bristle with optional extras, his brain was still in overdrive. He 
wondered if he had been over-optimistic in his report to the Director. He didn’t think so. He wondered, too, about Mademoiselle Katz and all the others he had met at the studios; what the future held for them. He also wondered if he would ever be able to eat again. But then, that was often the case after a good meal. In his profession it was something of an occupational hazard.

Pommes Frites also appeared to have a lot on his mind. He was clearly worried about something, and when he was in that mood it was much the same as having a
nervous
passenger on the back of a motorcycle. He was apt to lean the wrong way and steering suffered accordingly. Several times Monsieur Pamplemousse had difficulty
getting
round corners at anything approaching his normal speed.

The meal had been beyond reproach; both the food and the wine were memorable. But as for the venue providing an opportunity for peaceful discussion… Fumes apart, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help thinking a
pavement
café in the Rue de Rivoli would have been a better choice.

One way and another he was looking forward to
putting
his feet up.

What he didn’t expect to find when he got home was Doucette standing in the middle of the hall clutching a spear.

The assegai had been a present many years before from a grateful African witch doctor who had been arrested for playing a tom-tom in a block of flats at two o’clock one morning. Through Monsieur Pamplemousse’s good offices the charge of disturbing the peace had been dropped, and the subsequent gift had been standing in their hall for so long he had almost forgotten it was there.

‘You won’t believe me when I tell you what’s been
happening
,’ 
said Doucette, an unholy gleam in her eye.

‘Try me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse wearily.

‘They’ve been back!’ said Doucette.

‘They?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse, suddenly all ears. ‘What do you mean
they
?’

‘Those two men who came earlier in the week. Well, not the same two. But they both had clipboards. They spun me some yarn to do with there having been complaints about your
jardinières
. Apparently there is a story going around that one of them fell off the balcony. But that simply isn’t possible.’