Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation (17 page)

‘Is there a mother?’

‘My understanding is she left home soon after the girl was born and hasn’t been seen since.’

‘So there may not be another in the family for some while?’

‘I think it is very unlikely,
Monsieur
.’

‘Tell me, Aristide. You met her. What is she really like?’

‘She is a nice girl.’

‘But no better than she should be? I sensed that from the pictures I received over the facsimile machine.’

‘Are any of us,
Monsieur
? Pictures do not always tell the truth. Some people acquire a reputation quite unfairly. True, she made me feel young for a while, and yet …’

‘Come now, Pamplemousse, you are as young as you feel.’

‘I am beginning to wonder,
Monsieur
. Having said that, I am not sure one would have trusted oneself with her in the Garden of Eden.’

‘Autumn would have arrived earlier than usual, eh, Pamplemousse? Fig leaves would have been blown hither and thither. Displaced beyond recall?’

‘Irretrievably,
Monsieur
.’

‘So in the end the world would not have been such a different place?’

‘
Non, Monsieur.
I fear not.’

‘Good, I’m glad to hear it.’ The Director rubbed his hands together. ‘You have helped me make up my mind, Aristide. I am pleased to say there is sufficient money available to purchase a new Twingo. This time I may even drive it down myself.
Given all that has happened it would be good to inspect the Hôtel Dulac at first hand.’

‘Would that be wise,
Monsieur
?’

‘You think I shouldn’t?’

‘I think some things are best left to follow their own course. At least for the time being.’

The Director looked disappointed. ‘But I thought it was all over. It was in this morning’s
journaux
. They have arrested two men. It seems they were midgets … members of a travelling circus …’

‘I think by now they will have been released,
Monsieur.
’

‘You do?’

‘The person who murdered Monsieur André Dulac is much closer to home than that. Earlier you asked me if I had any idea who did it. I
know
who did it. He is a man with hatred in his soul, a hatred handed down from generation to generation. In giving him a menial job as a kind of dogsbody because he thought blood was thicker than water, André Dulac thought he was bestowing a favour. In fact, he was only rubbing salt into the wound and in effect signing his own death warrant. Giving is often much easier than receiving.

‘I think he is the kind of person who is constantly on the prowl, forever waiting and watching. A person who wouldn’t hesitate to have his daughter christened Claude in order to feather his nest. Any
money you have sent has gone not on her upbringing, but to line the pockets of her father. Your letter about the Twingo, which came her way purely by chance, was the first she got to know about it all.

‘What began as minor acts of sabotage, pinpricks as it were, escalated until they became an obsession. I doubt if the original attack on André Dulac was premeditated. It was probably nothing more to begin with than a violent row which got out of hand. Panic began to set in afterwards when he realised what he had done, and when he saw me making notes in the cemetery it took root.’

‘And you think that was sufficient reason to try and kill both you and Pommes Frites?’ asked the Director.

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded, although deep down he had to admit he harboured doubts. There had to be something else as well.

‘He could see his whole world collapsing and he became desperate. Added to that was the realisation that with his half-brother out of the way he could become the dominant member of the family. I strongly suspect he was already making overtures in that direction towards the bankers, who in turn were getting edgy about their loan.

‘I think he is a member of the second oldest profession. In France he is known as
un braconnier,
in Germany
der Wilderer
, and in
Angleterre
a poacher. They are all one of a kind. It is bred in the bones
and passed on from father to son. It is not something you learn at school. I think he is the man you caught a fleeting glimpse of on the tape. The man with the dog. André Dulac’s ne’er-do-well brother.’

‘But if you know all of these things, Aristide, what is the problem?’

‘Knowing is one thing,
Monsieur
. Proving it is another matter. Don’t forget, avoiding capture is part of a poacher’s stock in trade. It is second nature. Everybody in Pouligny knows what the other Dulac does for a living; but even the police would be hard put to make it stick in a court of law.’

Given the undoubted complications of the Director’s ‘arrangements’, it wouldn’t be possible to get him on a charge of embezzlement either. He was literally sitting pretty.

‘Pommes Frites brought me a bag. Where he got it from I do not know, but it was covered in moss as though it had been hidden in some undergrowth. It was an important item of evidence.’

‘Was? You mean you no longer have it?’

‘Unfortunately, no. It was in the back of the Twingo. The bag and its contents were blown to smithereens. No doubt bits and pieces will begin to show themselves when the snow melts. There was a gun – that should still be intact, wherever it is. In the meantime I have suggested to Inspector Lafarge that he pays a visit to the Hôtel du Commerce. For
what it is worth, he may find duplicates of the knife he has in his possession, although again, that in itself will prove nothing.

‘There is a wealth of circumstantial evidence. The knife … the gun … motive … opportunity. Knowing about the bag Pommes Frites brought me is one thing, proving its ownership is something else again.’

‘But you have seen the tape, Aristide. Was there nothing more on it apart from Pommes Frites’ disgraceful behaviour? I seem to recall brief glimpses … while I was speaking to you on the phone. And when we played it through for the second time.’

‘The tape?’ It was Monsieur Pamplemousse’s turn to look puzzled. ‘I’m afraid I do not understand,
Monsieur.
All I saw were the live pictures as they happened.’ He felt tempted to say that he only saw half of those because certain people telephoned him halfway through.

The Director looked uneasy. ‘I have to admit, Aristide, that I was perhaps somewhat precipitate in telephoning you when I did, but once Pommes Frites disappeared over the horizon everybody lost interest and began talking amongst themselves. Fortunately we were recording it for posterity.

‘Then, after dinner, when the ladies had gone off to do whatever it is ladies do after they have partaken of a good meal, the rest of us were lingering over cognac and cigars and Monsieur le Ministre
expressed interest in certain technical aspects of the filming. He wanted to see it all over again. I promised to let him have a copy, but he couldn’t wait, so I gave him the remote controller while I telephoned Trigaux issuing instructions to produce a duplicate as soon as possible.

‘My mind was focused on other things, and in any case after the repeat of Pommes Frites’ escapade it was hard to hear what was going on for the general hubbub. Cries of
encore!
and
bravo!
echoed round the room, but as I recall, before Monsieur le Ministre rewound the tape for yet another viewing there was a sequence where the man made a second appearance.’

Monsieur Leclercq made his way across the room and opened a cupboard door next to the drinks cabinet. It was the first time Monsieur Pamplemousse had seen inside it. The Director certainly did himself proud when it came to new equipment. It looked like a state-of-the art recording studio in miniature.

‘I have the original here. I can show it to you now, if you like …’

‘If you would,
Monsieur
.’

Pressure on a button caused a panel to slide back, revealing a slimline television screen. Returning to his seat the Director fast-forwarded through the earlier part of the tape. The sound of digitally enhanced heavy breathing woke Pommes Frites and he gazed at his speeded up performance with interest,
not to say a certain amount of pride in a job well done.

For his part, Monsieur Pamplemousse was riveted by the scenes after Pommes Frites detached himself from the object of his desires. The Director was right. Following the chase over the brow of a hill, there was a momentary pause as the camera panned wildly to and fro. ‘Hosepiping’ as it was known in the trade. A bush swam into view, then filled the screen. The branches parted as the camera moved slowly forward. Moments later a man came into view and began concealing something down a rabbit hole. He paused, clearly looking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being watched. For a second or two it was as though he were being held in a still frame, then the camera panned down to reveal what he was in the act of hiding.

Monsieur Pamplemousse had difficulty in concealing his excitement. It was all there. It couldn’t have been better if it had been directed by Alfred Hitchcock; or Chabrol, perhaps. Claude Chabrol at his best.

‘Thank goodness I didn’t wipe the tape at the time,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘In deference to the sensibilities of the ladies I very nearly did. Fortunately, Monsieur le Ministre intervened just as my finger was on the button.’

‘You said Trigaux will be making a copy,
Monsieur
?’

‘Indeed.’

‘We must get another off to Pouligny as soon as possible. There is no time to be lost. May I use your telephone?’

‘Of course. Two
Auvergnats
coming up against one another must be worse than Greek meeting Greek,’ mused the Director, while Monsieur Pamplemousse was waiting to get through.

‘In this case,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘to give credit where credit is due, one of them did have the benefit of a bloodhound at his disposal. It was a great advantage.’

Monsieur Leclercq reached for a button on his desk. ‘The whole thing is a cause for celebration. I will get Véronique to order Pommes Frites some
boudin noir
from Coesnon. You did say the
campagne
is his favourite?’

‘I did,
Monsieur
.’

Pommes Frites pricked up his ears as he heard several key words in quick succession.

‘He must have been remarkably well concealed when he took the pictures,’ said the Director. ‘It is quite extraordinary.’

‘Extraordinary sums it up,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He gazed down at Pommes Frites. ‘He has a sixth sense in these matters. It is second nature to him, and all in the course of a day’s work. Although I suspect he didn’t go entirely unnoticed, which is why the attempt on our lives was made.’

‘Do you think the earlier part of the tape was a calculated “diversion” on his part?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq. ‘That look on his face which we, the viewers, took to be undisguised gloating could, in fact, have been one of distaste?’

‘Pigs might fly,’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We shall never know,
Monsieur
,’ he said simply. ‘Let us just say we all have our methods. Perhaps it is best left at that.’

‘You are absolutely right, Aristide,’ said the Director. ‘There is an unhappy tendency in this day and age to destroy the reputations of those who are unable to defend themselves. Lesser mortals appear to derive some kind of satisfaction from it.’

While he was waiting for Inspector Lafarge to answer, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced up at the portrait of the Founder. It was strange to think that all the events of the past few days were the result of one man’s moment of weakness, but somehow he found it strangely warming. Paradoxically seeds must have been sown in more ways than one by Monsieur Hippolyte Duval when he visited Pouligny all those years ago.

‘I agree with everything you say,
Monsieur
,’ he said. ‘On the other hand, it is good to know that our Founder was human after all. It will make our work that much more rewarding in future to know that at heart he was one of us.’

Read on for an extract from
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation,
the next book in Michael Bond’s
Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites series …

‘Statistically,’ said Madame Pamplemousse, ‘there can’t be many people who travel all the way from Paris to the Côte d’Azur, only to end up being forced to watch a class of mixed infants give a performance of
West Side Story
.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked gloomily around the school hall. Statistically, as far as he could judge, they were the only ones; certainly there was no one he recognised from the train journey down.

‘These things happen, Couscous,’ he said.

‘They do to you,’ said Madame Pamplemousse, with a sigh. ‘They don’t to other people. Other people would be having their dinner by now.’

Doucette was quite right, of course, and there was no point in arguing. He only had himself to blame for waxing lyrical about the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or, and how
lucky they were to be staying there on the Antibes peninsula at someone else’s expense. In particular, he had lavished so much praise on the joy of sitting on the hotel’s world famous terrace of an evening, sipping an
apéritif
while studying the menu as the sun slowly disappeared over the western horizon, anything less had to be an anticlimax.

And less was what they had ended up with. His employer, Monsieur Henri Leclercq, Director of
Le Guide,
France’s oldest gastronomic bible, had seen to that. For the time being at least, it was a case of grin and bear it.

Glancing down at the mimeographed sheet of paper they had been given before the start of the show, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank still further. According to a note at the bottom it wasn’t due to end for another two hours. Admittedly that included a fifteen-minute interval, but from the way things were going they would be lucky if they saw the sun rise again the following morning. He decided not to mention it. At least the music was upbeat.

The twenty strong orchestra, made up mostly of girls from the senior school, was specially augmented in the percussion section by pupils from the junior forms manning triangles and tambourines.

‘It’s nice that everyone has a chance to take part,’ said Doucette reluctantly.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at his wife.

Speaking for himself, he had a sneaking suspicion that some of the smaller ones had only got the job because they had failed their auditions for any other kind of work, including that of scene shifting.

Who would be a teacher?

To be fair, the fact that so far the singing had failed to match up to his LP of the original cast recording was hardly surprising. Ill-equipped as they were for ‘finger snapping’, the Jets’ arrival on the scene during the opening routine set the tone for much that was to follow. The number describing the delights awaiting newly arrived immigrants to America only came near to meriting the phrase ‘show-stopping’ when one of the more enthusiastic of the minuscule dancers overshot his mark and narrowly missed colliding with a Shark who was waiting in the wings to make an entrance.

Given the speed at which he was travelling, the fact that he failed to pass straight through the bass drum as he took a header into the orchestra was little short of a miracle.

Buddy Rich in his heyday would have been hard put to equal the cacophony of sound which rose, first from the percussion section, then from the main body of the orchestra.

For a moment or two chaos reigned. Tears cascaded down the cheeks of the infant in charge of
the triangle as it was wrested from her tiny grasp. The harpist, her eyes closed in musical ecstasy, spent several seconds plucking the empty air before realising that her instrument was lying on its side, while the shrieks and squeals which rose from the string section rivalled that of the Sabine women as they met their fate.

At least there were no broken bones, but what Leonard Bernstein would have said about it all was best left to the imagination.

‘Do we have to stay, Aristide?’ whispered Doucette.

‘Only until the interval,’ hissed Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Pommes Frites will be wondering what has happened to us.’

‘I am sure he has better things to do,’ replied Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, we can hardly invite him in. He would find it very hard not to take sides. I hate to think what might happen to some of the Sharks.’

‘All the same,’ Madame Pamplemousse wasn’t going down without a fight, ‘I really don’t see why we have to meet this man – this so called “art dealer” – here of all places instead of in his gallery.
If
he has a gallery.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse allowed himself a sigh. ‘My dear Couscous, we mustn’t look a gift horse in
the mouth. You should know by now that if there are two solutions to a problem, one of which is simple and the other complicated, Monsieur Leclercq always goes for the second. It is as inevitable as the fact that night follows day. That is the way his mind works and there is no changing it.’

‘Even when it is totally unnecessary, since we plan to visit Nice while we are here anyway?’ persisted Doucette.

‘Especially when it is totally unnecessary. He would not be happy otherwise.’

Having delivered himself of the homily, Monsieur Pamplemousse rearranged himself as best he could on a seat which would have been barely adequate for one of the cast, let alone anyone of above average bulk.

Despite his words, he couldn’t help feeling uneasy. Had he been asked to write about the many missions he had carried out on the Director’s behalf since he first began working for
Le Guide
, it would have run to several volumes. Indexing them, trying to find explanations as to when and how various events seemingly unrelated to each other became inextricably entwined, would be something else again. Footnotes would abound. Cross references would have demanded yet another volume to themselves.

Their present situation was a case in point.

It had all begun with an evening spent with Monsieur and Madame Leclercq at their home near Versailles.

From time to time the Director and his wife took it into their heads to invite those who worked in the field, the Inspectors – who were, after all, the backbone of
Le Guide’s
whole operation – to dine with them. It was a form of bonding: almost the direct opposite of the American habit of allowing junior staff the privilege of wearing casual clothes to the office on a Friday, since it was a case of dressing up rather than dressing down.

That apart, given the surroundings – the beautifully tonsured lawns, the immaculate gardens, not to mention the food and the wine – few would have wished to forgo the pleasure. Only the wives had reservations, for in their case it inevitably meant an extra visit to the hairdresser on the day and as the moment drew near long heart-searching over what to wear.

It was after dinner, when Madame Leclercq and Doucette had retired to another part of the house to talk about whatever it was ladies talked about on such occasions, that Monsieur Leclercq first broached the subject of a holiday in the South of France.

As soon as Monsieur Pamplemousse saw the bottle of Roullet
Très Rare Hors d’Age
cognac appear
he knew something special was afoot. However, by then he was overflowing with the good things of life and in a benevolent mood; his critical faculties on hold for the time being, his guard lowered.

The Director chose the moment of pouring, when he had his back to Monsieur Pamplemousse, to strike.

‘Is everything well with you, Aristide?’ he asked casually. ‘It may be my imagination or perhaps even a trick of the light, but it struck me earlier on this evening that you were not your usual self.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse, who until that moment had been feeling particularly at peace with the world, suffered a temporary relapse. He took a grip of himself. Two could play at that game.

‘It has been a busy twelve months,
Monsieur
, what with one thing and another.

‘There was the time I spent on the Canal de Bourgogne and the unfortunate business with your wife’s aunt. Admittedly her brother was in a sense once removed, having lived for most of his life in America … Well, given the fact that he was shot, I suppose you could say that in the end he was twice removed … but as things turned out it was scarcely a holiday …’

‘Ah, yes.’ The Director made haste to pass one of the large Riedel balloon-shaped glasses; filled, Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed, with rather more
of the amber liquid than he would have wished given all that had gone before. The Director wasn’t one to stint his guests. Meursault with the
goujons
of sole, Château Cos d’Estournel with the pigeon and cheese, Barsac with the peaches and cream. He would have to watch his driving on the way home.

‘Then,’ he continued remorselessly, ‘there was the time earlier in the year when you had me pick up a car in Paris – the Renault Twingo you were giving to the illegitimate granddaughter of our late lamented Founder – and drive it down to the Auvergne. Again, if you remember, a home-made bomb planted in the boot wrecked my hotel room and very nearly took me with it … Hardly what one might call all in a day’s work.’

The Director seized on the mention of Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, founder of
Le Guide,
to raise his glass in silent homage and effectively cut short Monsieur Pamplemousse’s soliloquy.

Cupping it in his hands to warm the contents, he inhaled the vapour it gave off, then gave a deep sigh. ‘Aaah! It is no wonder they call it “the angel’s share”.

‘I know I have yet to thank you properly for all you did in both instances,’ he continued, ‘and on previous occasions too; but mention of them gives me the opportunity to make amends. All work and no play makes Jacques a dull boy and I think the
moment has come when you should both indulge yourselves by investing in some quality time.’

The use of the Americanism confirmed Monsieur Pamplemousse’s suspicions that the Director had being paying yet another visit to the New World; he usually returned armed with a supply of the latest expressions. He also noted the sudden use of the plural tense.

‘My car is overdue for its first 300,000 km service,’ he said dubiously. ‘Since Citroën stopped making the
Deux Chevaux,
parts are often hard to come by. Doucette and I have been thinking of taking the train to Le Touquet and spending a few days with a distant cousin of hers.’

Monsieur Leclercq emitted a series of clucking noises, as though experiencing a momentary seizure. ‘I was picturing somewhere rather more exotic, Pamplemousse. Somewhere further south; on the shores of the Mediterranean,
par exemple
. A spell in the sun will do you both the world of good.’

‘Le Touquet can be very invigorating in June,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘particularly when the wind is from the north-east, but if you get down to the beach early in the morning and find a suitable sand dune to shelter behind, there are the sand yachts to watch … provided
les
Allemandes
haven’t got there first … just lately Doucette has been suffering with her back …’

‘In that case,’ said the Director, ‘a week sitting on the beach in Le Touquet will probably do her more harm than good.’

‘I have been studying Shiatsu recently,’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is an ancient Japanese art where you apply pressure with your thumbs to various parts of the body …’

‘If you do that kind of thing behind the dunes, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq severely, ‘you may find yourself in trouble with the beach patrols.’

Draining his glass with a flourish to show that to all intents and purposes the matter was no longer up for discussion, his voice softened. ‘Neither Chantal nor I will take “no” for an answer, Aristide. I will have my secretary book three seats to Nice on the TGV –
Première Classe
– no doubt Pommes Frites will wish to accompany you both.

‘It is our way of saying “
merci beaucoup
”. Please do not deprive us of the pleasure.’ Normally Monsieur Pamplemousse would have bided his time, waiting for some kind of catch to emerge. It always made him feel uneasy when the Director addressed him by his first name. But despite everything, the words had been spoken with such simplicity, such innocence, humility even – a quality he rarely associated with the Director – he found himself wavering.

‘If that is what you really wish,
Monsieur
…’

‘It is, Aristide. It is. And I know Chantal will be especially pleased.’

And on that note the evening had come to an end.

They were barely out of the front drive and heading for home when Doucette broke the news. ‘Isn’t it wonderful, Aristide? Madame Leclercq has been telling me all about it. And really, all they want in return is that we should pick up a piece of artwork for them. Apparently it is too precious to be entrusted to a carrier. All the same, it seems so little in return for so much. Mind you, knowing the Director I’m sure it won’t all come out of his own pocket.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to say he would be surprised if any of it did, but Doucette had been so excited at the thought of an unexpected holiday he hadn’t the heart to throw cold water on it. Anyway the die had been cast and the whole thing sounded innocent enough.

So what was new? Wasn’t that the way most of his adventures on the Director’s behalf had started?

For the same reason it came as no great surprise when at the last minute the arrangements had been changed; picking up the painting or whatever it was at the concert rather than from the gallery itself.

As order was at last restored and the orchestra took their places and began tuning up again he glanced around the hall. Apart from the seating, it
really was the most luxuriously equipped school he had ever come across.