Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines (4 page)

He removed the shell and held it up to the light.

‘This one – a
numero deux
if I am any judge of size – will have lived for some three years before being taken from the hollow tile where it had made its home and placed in a
claire
, a shallow pool of water in an area once used for the production of salt. It is
spéciale
because it was privileged to remain there to fatten for eight weeks instead of the more usual four, and during that time share it with only nine others to the square metre instead of being one of a vast crowd.

‘As a female, in its time it must have spawned hundreds of millions of eggs; as a male it would have had the
perhaps
even more onerous task of trying to fertilize as many of them as possible before other creatures gobbled them up.

‘As soon as the eight weeks had passed it was removed from the
claire
in order to meet its greatest enemy of all –
Homo Sapiens
.’

Reaching for the fork, Monsieur Chavignol plunged the sharply pointed tines inside the shell. Tilting back his head, he turned and presented his profile in silhouette to the audience.

‘As the Irish writer Jonathan Swift once said: “He was a bold man that first ate an oyster”, but I must say I am very glad he did. Otherwise we might never have known the exquisite pleasure which is theirs to give.

‘Sad to relate…’ opening his mouth, he popped the
oyster
laden fork inside it, ‘my own very dear friend is no 
longer with us.’

The audience, awaiting their cue, remained silent. But instead of his usual cry of “YUMS”, Monsieur Claude Chavignol gave vent to a strangled groan.

Holding his throat, he toppled forward, clutching
desperately
at the counter with his other hand for support. Unable to retain a grip on the polished surface, he began to slide, and before an invited audience of 150, and
countless
millions of others unseen, slowly disappeared from view.

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s first reaction was that it was yet another of his tricks, albeit a somewhat macabre one, and for a second or two he sat where he was. Even the floor manager seemed taken by surprise. Cupping his hands over his headset, he was clearly listening to
reactions
from the gallery. The nurse was speaking into her mobile.

Less than half a kilometre away, Pommes Frites sat
staring
at the Pamplemousses’ television screen. On the whole he liked cookery programmes. It didn’t require much in the way of persistency of vision to recognise a close-up of a sausage when he saw one, and although molluscs didn’t figure large in his list of favourite comestibles, he’d had no difficulty with Monsieur Chavignol’s oyster.

What he hadn’t bargained on was seeing his master suddenly appear in the picture. Bending down behind the desk he dragged the man in the white coat to his feet. Standing behind him, he joined his own hands together to form a fist and having placed it low down on the man’s stomach, thrust it sharply upwards.

Just as things were beginning to get interesting, the screen went blank.

‘It isn’t a bit of good doing that,’ said Madame Pamplemousse, as Pommes Frites disappeared behind the 
television set. ‘That won’t bring the picture back. And if you ask me,’ she added, ‘that goes for Monsieur Chavignol as well!’

Further down the slopes of the Butte Montmartre, Monsieur Pamplemousse also looked round in vain. Having apparently got nowhere with the Heimlich Manoeuvre, things were getting desperate. The seconds were ticking away. Assuming Chavignol was choking on the oyster there was approximately four minutes from start to finish before unconsciousness set in, followed by possible brain damage and death.

Turning the victim round to face him, Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. Mindful of Doucette’s earlier remarks on the subject of lips, it was easy to see why no one else was exactly fighting to be the first to administer the kiss of life.

He included himself in that, but with more reason than most. The aptness of Marcel Aymé’s words: “Life always comes to a bad end”, was all too apparent. It didn’t need Pommes Frites’ olfactory powers to detect on the other’s breath the faint but all too familiar odour of bitter almonds.

In his book that meant only one thing: cyanide! 

‘Aristide… what an awful thing to happen!’

Doucette must have been listening out for him. As soon as the lift came to a halt on the seventh floor, she opened the door of their apartment and came out to greet him. Pommes Frites followed on behind, wagging his tail in silent admiration.

‘You saw it all?’

The truth was Monsieur Pamplemousse had no idea how much of the
catastrophe
had gone out. At the time he’d had too many other things on his mind to notice whether the programme was still on the air or not. From what Doucette said, it sounded as though he had beaten the vision mixer to the draw in one of those moments when a second or two can seem like an eternity. Perhaps those up in the gallery had also been wondering whether the whole thing was for real or not. It was one of the perils of live
television
.

‘You were on for quite a long time. We both felt very proud of you. Pommes Frites was most upset when they faded the programme. It’s a pity you didn’t have your hair cut like I told you to…’

Doucette clearly had a lot bottled up.

‘There were more important things going on,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse pointedly. ‘I doubt if anyone noticed.’

‘He
will
be all right?’

Closing the apartment door behind him, Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged himself out of his overcoat and hung it in the hall cupboard. 

‘I doubt if any insurance company would issue a policy on his behalf. They wouldn’t fancy his chances.’

Looking for his slippers he realised Pommes Frites, anticipating his every wish as usual, was already waiting guard over them by the armchair near the window in the next room.

‘But how awful for you. Was it his heart do you think?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse made a face. ‘Everyone dies of heart failure, Couscous. Sometimes it is brought on by old age… sometimes it is helped on its way…’

‘You don’t mean? But that is terrible…’ Madame Pamplemousse followed him into the living room.

‘When you were late back I assumed you had
accompanied
Monsieur Chavignol to the hospital.’

The chance would have been a fine thing. As soon as the nurse came off the telephone she went into action, taking over from him, issuing orders right left and centre. Speaking for himself he would have left Monsieur Chavignol where he was, rustling up some screens to
protect
him from the gaze of the audience until help arrived. Instead, the same burly scene hands who erected the
cabinet
had carried him off somewhere behind the scenes.

His own doctor was like that. He always made himself scarce when he saw an accident. ‘Don’t touch,’ was his motto. ‘Leave it to the experts –
les Sapeurs-Pompiers
.’ It sounded like good advice.

Leaving it to the experts, but feeling a bit shut out of things all the same, Monsieur Pamplemousse had
accepted
the perfunctory thanks of the studio manager and joined the rest of the audience as they filed silently out of the studio. It occurred to him that someone might have asked if there was a doctor in the house, but he kept his counsel. He had already done more than his bit.

Once outside, instead of taking a short cut up the Rue 
Tholozé towards the Moulin de la Galette, he opted for the gentler climb leading towards the Place des Abbesses. It was hard making the transition from the bright lights to the gloom of the evening and he needed time to think.

He hadn’t gone far before he heard the sound of approaching sirens behind him; what sounded like the
Sapeurs-Pompiers
– first on the scene as usual, then an ambulance – probably from the Hôpital Bichat Claude Bernard near the
Périphérique
, then a police car. All three stopped together, further away than he expected. Perhaps they were caught up in the evening traffic.

Feeling in his pocket he wondered then, as he was
wondering
now, if he had done the right thing. “Tampering with evidence” was what some of his old colleagues back at the Quai des Orfèvres might have called it. “Typical Pamplemousse. He’s always been a bit of a loner,” others might have said. Perhaps he should have insisted on
staying
put until the Police arrived. Pulled a bit of rank – or
ex-rank
. The truth of the matter was, he didn’t necessarily trust the locals.

Also, seeing the speed at which everyone in the
television
studios went about their work, if he hadn’t acted when he did the objects in his handkerchief could well have been swept up with the rest of the rubbish.

As with taking a short cut on the way to Melun it had been a spur of the moment decision. He told himself that he would hand them in later and make his peace at the same time. Maybe after he’d had something eat.

‘I hope you don’t mind, Aristide.’ Doucette broke into his thoughts. ‘I’ve got you some oysters for
dîner
. I thought it would be a treat.’

‘Thank you, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily. ‘It is just what I fancy. A dozen, I hope.’

‘Two dozen,’ said Madame Pamplemousse nervously. ‘I 
told you it was a treat. They are your favourite –
spéciale fine de claire
.’

‘
Numero deux
?’

‘Of course.’

‘It gets better and better. Don’t worry. It would take more than this evening’s little debacle to put me off.’

Nevertheless, he viewed the prospect with rather less relish than usual. Inevitably it was another reminder of his time in the
Sûreté
. In those days, if ever a case took place in a hospital – someone stabbed in the heart, perhaps, or in the kidneys, as happened with the ward sister who had disembowelled one of her patients in the dead of night, a
crime passionelle
, so she had got off comparatively lightly, although it put paid to her prospects of promotion for quite a while – a meal afterwards with those closely involved always seemed to involve eating a dish
highlighting
the relevant organ: braised hearts perhaps, or foie
gras de canard.
In those days it hadn’t been coincidence. It was the medics’ idea of a joke.

‘I have some of your favourite
fromage
as well.’ Doucette’s voice came from the kitchen. ‘Saint Agur.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his taste buds begin to salivate. Oysters, blue cheese from the Auvergne – the land of his birth… it had the makings of a classic meal. He might suggest it during the next staff get-together when, sooner or later in the evening, they played a game called “My last meal on earth.” Tastes changed over the years, and nowadays he would add
foie gras
, which he wouldn’t have chosen at one time. Truffles, of course, and the first of the fresh asparagus from the Landes. The last two being seasonal, it would be a job to combine them, but should the gods be smiling on him and stay their hand until the spring, there was a small window at the end of March when both were available… 

In the meantime, Doucette was certainly pushing the boat out. Wondering if by chance he had missed some important anniversary, he felt for his diary. ‘What are we having for the main course?’

‘Ah, there is a bit of a problem.’ Her voice came from the direction of the dining-room now. He heard the sound of clinking cutlery.

‘Agathe gave me the remains of yesterday’s lunch. She’s not very keen on it herself. She only does it for your
benefit
.’

‘
Merde
!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse leapt to his feet. ‘Do we have to?’

Doucette made tutting noises. ‘She’s bound to ring up later and ask if we enjoyed it.’

‘It’s a good job Pommes Frites can’t answer the phone,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse bluntly. ‘She might learn the truth.’

Ever alive to domestic vibrations, Pommes Frites assumed his gloomy expression, then very firmly lay down and closed his eyes.

Left to his own devices, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed the handkerchief from his trouser pocket and began unwrapping the contents. Holding first one half of an oyster shell delicately between thumb and forefinger as though it were a precious jewel, then the other half, he sniffed each in turn.

Over and above the distinctive odour of the sea, he could still detect the smell of almonds.

Pommes Frites opened one eye, then came over to join him.

‘
Non
!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly.

Crossing to a bureau, he opened a drawer and took out a plastic sample bag – another souvenir of his time in the force. 

It wouldn’t do for Pommes Frites to wake up while they were eating and take it into his head that the contents of the handkerchief was a better bet than Agathe’s leftover
tripes à la mode de Caen
. He wouldn’t blame him, of course.

Help came in the shape of a bottle; a gift from his
colleague
, Bernard, who had once been in the wine trade. Bernard was something of an expert in Bordeaux, but
following
the run of bad years along with the hiking up of prices he had moved over to Burgundy and Rhône. André Brunel’s Côtes du Rhône Cuvée Sommelongue even
mitigated
the horrors of the warmed up meal.

Doucette further redeemed herself with a
soufflé
omelette filled with rose petal jam. Three criss-crossing dark brown lines had been made with a hot poker in the sugared top to form the letter A for Aristide.

What more could any man wish for?

The telephone starting ringing shortly before breakfast next day. The first call was from Monsieur Leclercq, Director of
Le Guide
. He was speaking from his car phone. On finding Monsieur Pamplemousse was out for an early morning walk with Pommes Frites, he left a message
asking
him to report to his office as soon as possible.

Returning from the
boulangerie
in the Rue Caulaincourt, armed with
croissants
for Doucette,
brioche au sucre
for
himself
, and a
pain au chocolat
for Pommes Frites (a treat for coming to his rescue the night before and surreptitiously helping to finish off the remains of the
tripes
), Monsieur Pamplemousse encountered a member of the press,
notebook
in hand, waiting for him outside their apartment block.

Having learnt from bitter experience that you crossed swords with the media at your peril, he did his best to 
parry the questions: ‘Yes, it was entirely a matter of chance that he had been at last night’s show.’; ‘No, he had no
connection
whatsoever with Claude Chavignol.’; ‘No, he had nothing to add … the reporter knew as much about things as he did.’ The double negative went unnoticed.

It was an unexpected and wholly unwelcome intrusion to his life, and the
petit déjeuner
he had been looking
forward
to suffered accordingly.

Doucette complaining that Pommes Frites had left chocolate stains all over a new rug didn’t help, especially when he tried to lick them up and only made matters worse.

Monsieur Pamplemousse sought refuge on the balcony in order to tend his herb garden.

It was something he had come to late in life. From small beginnings – a wooden window box containing parsley and chives, it had grown into a neat row of some half a dozen pottery
jardinières
supported on metal brackets attached to the railings that ran the length of the terrace. Basil now rubbed leaves with lemon thyme – he was
particularly
proud of his dwarf
Thymus erectus
– which was like a tiny tree, and dwarf green curled parsley shared the same container. Marjoram grew alongside sorrel, and there was tarragon and fennel too.

They were his pride and joy, and if other mean-spirited people who entered the building when he happened to be watering them complained to the
concierge
, they knew what they could do; buy an umbrella! Exposed to the
elements
as they were, the pots soon dried out and needed constant attention during the summer. Now, with a week at home, it was time to think about carrying out some
thinning
and dividing up ready for next spring. The remaining basil leaves had to be stripped for drying; and the parsley cut for Doucette’s tea – she maintained it was good for her 
complexion, and it seemed to work.

He might even splash out on some new plants. In fact, had he not been held up that Sunday he’d planned to call in at a nursery on the way to Agathe.

No sooner had he started work than he heard the phone ringing.

‘It’s Monsieur Leclercq again,’ called Doucette. ‘He’s back in his office. He would like to see you as soon as
possible
. And will you please bring Pommes Frites?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse grunted a reply. The chives were still doing well. Bernard’s advice to deflower them early in the year had paid off. He wasn’t surprised at
hearing
from the Director, but he wondered why Pommes Frites had been summoned too. Not that he was ever made to feel less than welcome, but specific invitations were rare.

The borage seeds he had sown during the summer months were also coming along fine. Who was it said “One is nearer God’s heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth?” An Englishman probably, or more likely an English lady poet. He couldn’t remember, but if it were true then surely even a humble collection of window boxes must stand him in good stead. The fact that they were on the seventh floor of his apartment block situated on the slopes of the highest point in Paris ought to give him a head start.

‘Didn’t you hear me call, Aristide?’ Doucette appeared in the doorway. ‘The phone hasn’t stopped ringing.’

‘Who is it now?

‘That
journal
Claude Chavignol wrote his weekly
column
for. The editor said he wanted to make you an offer you couldn’t refuse.’

‘I hope you told him where to go…’

‘Certainly not. I asked him what he had in mind.’ 

‘And…?’

‘He wants to engage you to find the murderer. Think of it, Aristide. It will be just like old times. While you’re doing it you can have free use of the column and all the support you need. And it would mean your being in Paris for a while instead of disappearing for weeks on end
eating
your way around France. He seemed to think the whole thing was meant.’