Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines (5 page)

There it was again. The same old syndrome; was it
coincidence
, or was it pre-ordained?

‘He said they would pay you well.’

‘I know what the Director would say about that…’

‘I know something else, Aristide. You’re not going to escape that easily. Have you looked outside?’

Glancing over the railings, he recognised the man who had waylaid him earlier. He had been joined by several others. There was no mistaking their calling. It wasn’t just the cameras at the ready, it was their attitude, and the way they were dressed. They didn’t just stand around; they “lurked”, ready to pounce. One even had the effrontery to hang his hat on Marcel Aymé’s statue, and was about to take a picture of it. Another, sporting a camera with an enormous narrow angle lens, pointed it straight at the
balcony
. He hoped he was pleased with the result. At that
distance
he didn’t fancy the man’s chances, although you never knew these days; some lenses even had built in
stabilizers
.

Monsieur Pamplemousse was no stranger to fame. Once upon a time it had been forced on him by a voracious press anxious to fill their pages with an update on the latest crime straight from the horse’s mouth.

That had been the downside of the job, although in those days he’d had the weight of the Paris
Sûreté
to back him up. Now, if he took up the offer he would enjoy no 
such luxury.

‘If he rings back tell him I’m out.’

‘But, Aristide…’

‘It will be true. I have to see Monsieur Leclereq before I do anything else. I’ll go out the back way.’

Hearing the phone start to ring again he gave a sigh. ‘There’s no peace for the wicked.’

‘You said it, Aristide,’ said Doucette, ‘not me.’

When he arrived at
Le Guide’
s headquarters in the Rue Falbert it felt as though he had just returned from the wars, or rowed all the way round the world single-
handed
. Even old Rambaud, the gatekeeper, broke into a smile. It was a shame he hadn’t got his camera with him. He could have recorded the moment for posterity.

Pommes Frites revelled in their new-found glory.

At least Véronique, Monsieur Leclercq’s secretary, had the grace to greet him as though nothing unusual had taken place. She simply smiled her usual warm smile as she ushered him into the holy of holies.

As they entered the room the Director turned away from his desk and, having advanced towards Monsieur Pamplemousse, hand outstretched, issued an instruction to Véronique to tell the switchboard they were not under any circumstances to be disturbed for the next hour, and that if she had any important shopping to do, now would be a very good time. It could hardly have been more
pointed
.

Pommes Frites seemed to sense the slight frost that descended on the room. Having slaked his thirst from a water bowl laid ready on a napkin, he promptly backed off and sat down to await developments.

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s own worst fears were realised when he saw the Director’s normally immaculate desk littered with newspapers. 

As for Monsieur Leclercq, worry lines were etched on his face and he looked as though he hadn’t slept a wink all night. His first words confirmed it.

‘Pamplemousse – at last! I have hardly slept a wink all night!’

One by one he held up the journals. ‘MORT À
MONTMARTRE
,’ he intoned, picking them up at random. ‘MYSTÈRE CHAVIGNOL… HOMICIDE À HUITRE… PAMPLEMOUSSE RIDES AGAIN!’ (The last from the
New York Herald Tribune
)

‘They make unhappy reading, Pamplemousse.’

A feeling of
déjà vu
came over Monsieur Pamplemousse as he found himself staring at variations of his own
likeness
appearing beneath the banner headlines. Most were flatteringly old.

‘At least Le Monde doesn’t carry photographs, Monsieur.’

‘We must be thankful for such mercies,’ said the Director gloomily, ‘however small they may be.

‘Monday evenings will no longer be the same,’ he read. ‘Chavignol was a one-off… A professional to his
fingertips
… He will be much mourned.’ He sounded bitter, which was unlike him.

‘This is bad news,’ he continued. ‘Your identity is now common knowledge, Pamplemousse. Remember our motto. The three A’s:
Action, Accord, Anonymat
.’

‘With respect, Monsieur, those precepts have not been breached. There is nothing to link me to
Le Guide
. It is my past affiliations the media are interested in, not my present ones. I venture to suggest that even after seeing the
photographs
many of those in the trade, waiters,
restaurateurs
, will not recognise me. Memories are short. People have their own problems.’

Monsieur Leclercq looked doubtful. ‘You know what 
the media are like. Once they start digging into things there is no knowing what they will turn up.’

‘I have no secrets to hide,
Monsieur
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse virtuously. The response seemed to go home. ‘Lucky
Le homme
who can say that, hand on heart, Aristide,’ said the Director fervently.

‘That apart, the whole unsavoury business will do a great deal of harm to the oyster industry. Already there have been complaints from Locmariaquer. Despite there being an “R” in the month, both Le Dôme and La Coupole have reported a falling off in trade.’

It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that for some reason best known to himself the Director was either clutching at straws, or failing to grasp the nettle. ‘It didn’t do much forMonsieur Chavignol either,’ he added drily.

‘There is good in everything, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director. ‘In Chavignol’s case the best you can say is that it is good riddance to bad rubbish.

‘The man was a
monstre
of the very worst kind.
Un salaud
…
une vache
…
vielle pouffiasse
…
merdaillon
…
scélerat
… It is hard to find words to describe him.’

‘You are doing very well,
Monsieur
,’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Worst of all, Aristide,’ continued the Director, ‘the man was a charlatan; a disgrace to his chosen profession.’

‘With respect,
Monsieur
, the world of catering doesn’t exactly enjoy a spotless reputation at the best of times. You have only to read the book written by that American chef, Monsieur Bourdain, to see what I mean. It is on all the bestseller lists. The public loves reading about these things.’

‘What chefs get up to within the confines of their own workplace is a matter between themselves and their
colleagues
,’ said the Director. ‘Fornication behind the
dishwasher
 
is one thing, but when such behaviour and worse spills over into their home life it is another matter.’

‘There is a Madame Chavignol?’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘From all I have heard…’

‘There is indeed!’ said Monsieur Leclercq grimly.

‘
Hélas
!’ He sat down heavily in his chair and gazed out of the window. ‘It is about Madame Chavignol that I wish to confer with you.’

‘But if her husband was all that you say he was,
Monsieur
, then surely…’

‘Then surely she must feel relieved. Is that what you were about to say, Aristide?’

‘It would seem to follow,
Monsieur
. However, I long ago ceased to wonder about the way people react in times of stress. Human nature is very complex; at times it is
wholly
unpredictable.’

Monsieur Leclercq came back to earth from wherever he had been.

‘Things are not always as they seem, Aristide.’ He glanced nervously towards the door leading to the outer office in case Véronique hadn’t taken his advice. ‘The story I have to tell you is not a pretty one…’

‘Is it about an oyster?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse, seeking to help the Director out.

Monsieur Leclerq stared at him. ‘No, Pamplemousse, it is not! It happened a few weeks ago when my wife and I were attending a party at the Chavignol’s home in the 7th
arrondissement
.

‘It was a warm summer evening and there was a string quartet playing in the garden. I was dancing with the
hostess
on the patio when I happened to pass some innocent remark about how nice it was to see such a happy couple. I was thinking of her husband, of course, who I must say had been the perfect host; exuding
bonhomie
to all and 
sundry.

‘Madame Chavignol stopped on the spot and looked me straight in the eye. Having suggested we sit the next dance out, she fortified herself with a glass or two of Roederer Crystal champagne.

‘At this point I would ask you to bear in mind that there are two sides to every story. I am simply relating the facts of what transpired in chronological order. What she had to tell me made Casanova’s memoirs pale by comparison.

‘I felt it my duty to console her. She needed a shoulder to cry on. I didn’t mention it to Madame Leclercq at the time because for some reason she had taken a violent
dislike
to our hostess. You know how women can be on such occasions… although in retrospect I have to admit she showed remarkable prescience. As far as I was concerned there was nothing to it, of course…’

Monsieur Pamplemousse raised both hands
heavenwards
. ‘Of course,
Monsieur
. Not for one moment did I think otherwise.’

‘People always tend to think the worst…’

‘That has been my experience, too,
Monsieur
.’

‘In your case, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director sternly, ‘not without reason I fear.

‘But I ask you this. How would your wife feel if you
preferred
sleeping with a plastic inflatable nun by your side? How would any normal woman feel?’

‘I cannot speak for Doucette,
Monsieur
, although she is such a sound sleeper she would probably never know. As for Madame Chavignol, I have never met the lady, but if her husband was all you say he was, it may well have been a blessing in disguise.’

‘It is hard to disguise a plastic inflatable nun, Pamplemousse, and it was not always by his side,’ said the Director meaningfully. ‘As she told the story to me that 
evening, he was often astride it. Acting, if you will pardon the expression, like the proverbial village pump. There were times when the poor woman lay in fear and
trembling
that it might explode at any moment.’

‘I sympathise,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But such devices are remarkably resilient these days. Great strides have been made in the field of plastics. Take,
par exemple
, Pommes Frites’ inflatable kennel. There was the time when you sent us to that Health Farm in the
Pyrénées-Orientales
– Château Morgue. If you remember it turned out to be a haunt of drug smugglers. With the door flap of his kennel sealed and the inside filled with helium, it
lifted
him and most of
Le Guide’s
camera equipment with no trouble at all. And that at a time when he also needed to lose weight. Had I not attached a stout line we might never have seen him again.’

Hearing his name being bandied about, Pommes Frites stood up and wagged his tail.

‘Yes, yes, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq wearily. ‘I do recall the escapade, although I must admit it happened so long ago the precise details escape me. When I said “poor woman” I was referring to Madame Chavignol, not the inflatable nun.’

‘I read recently of a carrier that has been developed in order to move transformers on cushions of air between the factory and the power station,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, unwilling to be deflected from his theme. ‘Some of them can support as much as 300 tonnes.’

‘I hardly think Madame Chavignol makes a habit of sharing her bed with a three hundred tonne transformer,’ said the Director impatiently. ‘At the time I felt she was in need of counselling, not electric shock treatment. I have since learnt better.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows and
waited
 
patiently while the Director toyed nervously with a propelling pencil.

‘I have an idea I would like to run up the flagpole, Aristide,’ he said at long last. ‘But it must not go beyond these four walls.’

‘You have been to
les Etats-Unis
recently,
Monsieur
?’ It was a long established fact that whenever the Director
visited
America he invariably returned armed with the latest jargon, although by the time he started dropping it into the conversation more often than not it was long past its
sell-by
date.

‘I have only just returned, as matter of fact. I had to address a seminar at the CIA…’

‘You have been to the Pentagon,
Monsieur
?’ In spite of everything Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help being impressed. ‘I didn’t know their canteen had been awarded an honorary Stock Pot. If I may offer my congratulations, that is a splendid gesture. It can do nothing but good. Franco-American relations often seem at a low ebb. Only last night Mademoiselle Odette was complaining about the recent flood of hamburger bars in the Champs Elysées.’

‘No, Pamplemousse,’ the Director broke in impatiently. ‘You misunderstand me. I am not referring to the Central Intelligence Agency, but to the Culinary Institute of America. Both, I may say, have equally high standards, even if they differ somewhat in their ideals. The main
difference
between the two is that whereas the Intelligence Agency are much like our own Direction Général de la Sécurité – they cannot resist placing bugs wherever they go, – the latter spend their time making sure none exist. Food poisoning is ever uppermost in their minds. Cleanliness is certainly next to Godliness with those who attend classes at the school’s premises in New York State. 
Certificates are not awarded lightly.

‘However, that is not why I wished to see you. I have other matters to discuss. Matters of extreme delicacy.’

Once again, Monsieur Leclercq cast a nervous eye towards his office door. ‘What I am about to tell you, Aristide, must be treated in the utmost confidence.