Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates

by Michael Bond

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates

  Michael Bond

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  1 THE LAUNCH PARTY

  2 BYTES AND RAMS

  3 THE RIGHT CONNECTIONS

  4 A WAITING GAME

  5 THE GRILLING OF JOJO

  6 THE TOMBSTONE TRAIL

  7 RENDEZVOUS AT AUX DEUX MAGOTS

  8 CONFESSION TIME

  9 POMMES FRITES TAKES THE PLUNGE

  10 THE FINAL PRINT-OUT

  About the Author

  Also by Michael Bond

  Copyright

  1

  THE LAUNCH PARTY

  It should have served as an omen. Half-way down the Avenue Junot, while out for his early-morning walk with Pommes Frites, Monsieur Pamplemousse encountered a large black van parked across the pavement outside an apartment block. As he squeezed his way through the tiny gap left between the open rear doors and the entrance to the building, he glanced inside and saw a series of racks running along each wall of the interior. Five of them were filled by leather, coffin-shaped containers. The sixth was empty, awaiting the arrival of another customer.

  It was a common enough sight at that time of the year. All the same, it cast a temporary gloom on their outing, a gloom which the leaden clouds almost stationary overhead did nothing to alleviate. Even Pommes Frites hurried on his way as though anxious to put the matter behind him as quickly as possible.

  Turning into the Rue Caulaincourt, Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled his jacket collar up to shield his neck from the cold east wind and quickened his pace still further. He wished now he’d worn an overcoat, but at the beginning of the month – much against Madame Pamplemousse’s advice – he’d put it away for the year. Pride forbade that he should take it out again, but if the bad weather continued much longer he might have to. March, which had started warm and spring-like, was not going out without a struggle. Every evening the news on the television had fresh tales of woe to tell.

  Two sparrows having an early-morning bathe in the water swirling its way down the gutters of the Butte took off when they saw Pommes Frites approaching. A street-cleaning waggon scuttled past like a scalded cat.

  Others had their problems too. Pruning had started later than usual in the little vineyard on the nearby slopes of Montmartre, and the tables and chairs which would normally have appeared by now in the Place du Tertre ready for the tourist season were still under cover. The Easter eggs in the window of the boulangerie looked premature.

  Carrying a bag of breakfast supplies and a copy of the morning journal, Monsieur Pamplemousse retraced his steps back up the hill. He took a short cut this time – up the Rue Simon Dereure and through the little park opposite his apartment. It was a truncated version of what he called ‘the round’, but it was no morning for lingering.

  Armed with a pointed stick, the park-keeper was doing his rounds, prodding at sleeping figures tucked away in odd corners, sheltering from the wind.

  Out of respect for their plight, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked the other way. Windows on the upper floors of surrounding buildings were being flung open as women appeared and began draping bedclothes across their balcony railings to be aired. Some children were already hard at work on the slides in the play area, their downward progress slowed by the morning dew.

  If it weren’t for all the cars parked at the sides of the roads, Montmartre in the early morning wasn’t so far removed from the way it must have been when Utrillo painted it.

  Waiting by the Boules area for Pommes Frites he remembered the encounter with the van and wondered if perhaps there would be one player less that afternoon. One thing was certain: it wouldn’t stop the game. Nothing short of an earthquake would ever do that.

  Back home again, Monsieur Pamplemousse found café already percolating on the stove and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice beside his plate. Pommes Frites slaked his thirst noisily from a bowl of water and then collapsed in a heap on a rug under the kitchen table while he waited for his petit déjeuner.

  Distributing his purchases, a croissant on the opposite plate, and a pain au sucre for himself, Monsieur Pamplemousse settled down and glanced through the journal while he waited for Doucette to join him.

  It was the usual mixture of gloom and despondency; news of the weather still predominated. He sometimes wondered why he bothered to read it, except that the day always felt incomplete without at least a cursory glance through the headlines, and he was about to discard it when his eye alighted on a brief entry amongst a list of recent bereavements. It stood out from the rest by virtue of being in bolder type. For a moment or two he could scarcely believe his eyes. Then he jumped to his feet.

  ‘Sacrebleu! It is not possible!’

  ‘What is not possible?’ Madame Pamplemousse, her hair still in rollers, bustled in from the bedroom. ‘You are forever telling me all things are possible.’

  ‘The Director is mort!’

  ‘What? I don’t believe it!’ Madame Pamplemousse automatically crossed herself.

  He handed her the journal. ‘Look for yourself.’

  She scanned the entry briefly and then handed the journal back to him. ‘Poof! It is typical. They cannot even get the date right.’

  Stifling his irritation, Monsieur Pamplemousse re-read the item. It was also typical of Doucette that she should fasten on some minor detail and in so doing, lose sight of the whole. What did it matter if it was today’s date, yesterday’s date, or even, as in the present case, a whole week away? Which was also, by sheer coincidence, the third Tuesday in March, traditionally publication day of Le Guide. The fact that she was right did nothing to soften the blow. The printer’s error was a trivial matter by comparison. Perhaps the compositor responsible had recognised the name and gone into a state of shock, emotion dulling his skills. There were a hundred possible explanations. The important fact was that the Director, the head of France’s oldest and most respected food guide, was no longer with them. Blinds in restaurants the length and breadth of the Republic would be lowered; flags across the nation would be flown at half-mast.

  He lifted the telephone receiver and dialled his office number. Not surprisingly, it was engaged. The switchboard was probably awash with incoming calls.

  ‘It would happen today of all days.’

  ‘If you’re dead, you’re dead.’ Madame Pamplemousse reached for the café. ‘It doesn’t make any difference which day it is. Will you care which day it is when it happens to you? I certainly shan’t.’

  ‘Today, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply, ‘happens to be the very day when the text for the new edition of Le Guide is being sent to the printers. It is what we have all been working for over the past year. There was to have been the usual send-off party …’

  ‘It will still go to the printers.’

  ‘Oui, Couscous, it will still go. But it will not be the same.’

  There wouldn’t be the Director’s speech for a start. Every year they all assembled in the boardroom – office staff, Inspectors, everyone connected with the production – and there was a buffet lunch. Apart from the annual staff outing in Normandy, it was the one occasion in the year when they all got together and were able to swop reminiscences and talk about the things that had happened to them over the past year. Often it went on far into the night.

  ‘At least you’ll be home early for a change, and you’ll be spared the speech. You’ve always said that once the Director gets going there’s no stopping him.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse finished his pain au sucre and rose from the table. ‘I must change. I can’t go looking like this.’ There was no point in discussing the matter. Either you understood these
things or you didn’t. It was really a case of rhythms. Some things that were said half-jokingly in life did not bear repeating after death. Often the things that seemed tedious at the time were the things you missed most of all.

  ‘You’ll find your black suit in a plastic bag behind the vacuum cleaner. I had it cleaned after you went to your Tante Mathilde’s funeral last May.’

  He looked out of the bedroom window. Was it his imagination, or were the clouds even darker than they had been earlier? He shivered. His winter suit felt stiff after his comfortable, lived-in clothes. It also smelled of mothballs, but at least the material was warm.

  He still could hardly believe the news. It was only a matter of weeks since he’d last seen the Director and he’d been looking unusually hale and hearty then. A trifle overweight perhaps, but weren’t they all? It was an occupational hazard. On an impulse he went into the bathroom and stepped on the scales, then wished he hadn’t. Even allowing for the fact that his suit was made of heavy material, it was still not good news.

  Pommes Frites was waiting for him when he came out of the bathroom. He had a black bow tied to his collar and his coat had been freshly brushed.

  ‘Take care.’ Doucette came to the door and kissed him goodbye. ‘If you speak to Monsieur le Directeur’s wife, do tell her how sorry I am.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave her a squeeze. Bad news took people in different ways. He knew that deep down she was really very upset.

  He gave a final wave as the lift doors started to close. ‘A bientôt.’

  ‘I will expect you when I see you.’ It was a throw-away remark, although had he but known, it would echo in his ears for days to come. In any case he had too many things running through his mind to do more than give an answering nod.

  Who would take over the running of Le Guide for a start? It was impossible to picture anyone new. As far as he was concerned the Director had always been there. They had enjoyed a special relationship, too; a relationship which dated back to his days in the Sûreté. He had once done the Director a favour while working on a case, and it had later borne fruit, when he had found himself forced into early retirement and by a stroke of good fortune they had bumped into each other again. If it hadn’t been for that chance meeting he wouldn’t have landed a job with Le Guide.

  He paused at the top of the steps leading down to the Lamarck-Caulaincourt Métro, then spotted a taxi waiting in the rank further down the road. It would save any possible arguments with ticket collectors over Pommes Frites’ size. Like most of the other Inspectors, he had taken advantage of the lunch party to put his car in for a service. Now he was beginning to regret the decision.

  It was also ironic that the Director should pass away at this particular time – just as they were about to be computerised. Under his management Le Guide had always been in the forefront of the latest scientific developments. It was like France itself in a way – on the one hand, firmly rooted in the best traditions of the past, on the other, paying homage at the altar of progress, and long may it remain so.

  Perhaps because of the strong smell of mothballs, the driver pointedly opened his window. Once again Monsieur Pamplemousse regretted his lack of an overcoat. Pommes Frites, ever-sensitive to his master’s moods, looked suitably put out as he gazed at the passing scene.

  The decision to commit the entire guide to a computer had not been taken lightly. It was undoubtedly a logical step if they were to keep one step ahead of their competitors, but given the vast number of entries and the immense amount of information which flowed into Le Guide’s headquarters every day of the year, information which needed to be collated and analysed, weighed and debated upon before it was programmed, it was also a mind-boggling task. As he’d said to Doucette: a year’s work. And there were rumours that other innovations were about to be unveiled. It was a shame the Director wouldn’t be there to announce them.

  As they crossed the Pont de l’Alma and swung round in a wide arc in order to circumnavigate the Place de la Résistance, Monsieur Pamplemousse asked the driver to stop when he had a suitable opportunity. It wasn’t so much that he needed the walk, it was more a matter of composing himself before he reached the office. A quiet stroll along the bank of the Seine would do him good.

  Half-way along the Quai d’Orsay he overtook one of his colleagues, Glandier, obviously doing the same thing.

  Glandier shook hands as he came up alongside. ‘A bad business.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘If you ask me,’ said Glandier gloomily, ‘there’s a jinx on the place. What with last week …’

  ‘Last week?’

  ‘You mean, you haven’t heard?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘I’ve been on the road for the last month.’

  Glandier gave a hollow laugh. ‘You missed all the fun. Someone put a piranha fish in the fountain outside the main entrance. There was hell to pay.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse whistled. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It ate all the goldfish for a start. Then it nearly did for one of the typists. Apparently she was sitting on the side having her déjeuner. She only put her hand in the water for a split second, and … whoosh!’

  ‘Whoosh! Is she …?’

  Glandier raised his hand and waggled it from side to side. ‘Comme ci, comme ça. Poof! Luckily she was wearing gloves. She has regained the power of speech, but it’s probably put her off sandwiches for life.’

  As they turned into the Esplanade des Invalides Monsieur Pamplemousse spotted a row of large grey vans parked at the far end of the Rue Fabert. Cables were snaked across the pavement. A man wearing headphones waved a clipboard to someone inside the courtyard of Le Guide’s headquarters.

  ‘They are here already!’

  Both men quickened their pace until they drew level with the first of the vans, when they were suddenly stopped dead in their tracks. An open door revealed an outside-broadcast control-room, and they could just see a row of television screens showing varying shots of the same subject. Unmistakably, that subject was the Director himself.

  ‘It must be an old film. I’m not sure I want to see it.’

  Glandier was about to go on his way when Monsieur Pamplemousse stopped him.

  ‘Attendez!’ He pushed a path through a small knot of sightseers gathered on the pavement.

  Above the hum of generators and the barking of orders from a producer seated in front of a control panel, they clearly heard snatches of a familiar voice.

  ‘… deeply grateful for the concern everyone has shown … a foolish prank on the part of someone as yet unidentified … as you can see … no, it is not a publicity stunt …’ The picture on the largest of the monitors – one labelled TRANSMISSION – changed to a tight close-up of the Director looking angry at the thought. ‘Le Guide has never had need for such things, nor, whilst I remain in charge, will it ever.’

  The rest was drowned by a round of applause. The camera zoomed out and the picture on the monitor changed to a studio shot. The interview was over. Everyone in the van relaxed.

  ‘Sapristi! What do you make of it?’ Glandier hurried after Monsieur Pamplemousse as he led the way towards the entrance to Le Guide’s headquarters. ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing. There’s bound to be another mishap. Things always go in threes.’

  The big double gates were open and the inner courtyard was crowded with people; the television crew, already dismantling their equipment ready for the next assignment, had given way to hordes of reporters and press photographers. Standing at the top of the steps leading to the main entrance was the erect figure of the Director. He appeared to be making the most of the situation: head back, chin out, right hand thrust beneath one lapel of his jacket, he looked for all the world as though he was giving an impersonation of Napoleon addressing his troops prior to giving the off signal for their historic crossing of the Alps.

  Beyond the huge plate-glass doors Monsieur Pamplemousse could see rows of familiar faces pressed against the glass. Like himself, m
any of those present were dressed in black. Word must have spread like wildfire.

  The battery of discharging flash-guns and the accompanying volley of clicking shutters would have been more than enough to satisfy even the most unpopular member of government hoping to achieve re-election; no film star seeking publicity for her current extravaganza would have had any cause to complain. Certainly the Director himself looked far from displeased as he gave a final wave to the news-hungry crowd before disappearing into the building.

  ‘So much for the anonymity of Le Guide,’ said Glandier.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a grunt. ‘He’s probably right. Get it all over in one fell swoop. There’s nothing more dangerous than an unsatisfied reporter.’

  All the same, he knew what Glandier meant. Entry to the hallowed forecourt was normally only achieved by means of a magnetic card issued solely to employees of Le Guide. Even then, they had to pass the scrutiny of old Rambaud, the commissionaire, who had been there for longer than anyone else could remember. This furore would probably give him nightmares for weeks to come.

  As they entered the building, the Director detached himself from a group congregated near the reception desk and drew Monsieur Pamplemousse to one side.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you, Pamplemousse,’ he complained, in the accusing tone of voice peculiar to those whose attempts to make contact with someone by telephone have been unsuccessful.

  ‘I called as soon as I heard the news, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘All lines were engaged.’ It was not his fault if Doucette had gone out shopping.

  ‘It is an infuriating business. I shall not rest until I get to the bottom of it. If I discover the culprit is a member of the staff …’ The rest was left to the imagination.

  ‘You think it is someone within Le Guide, Monsieur?’

  ‘I can think of no other possible explanation. Michelin wouldn’t stoop to such a thing. Besides, they have already sent their condolences in the form of a red rocking-chair made out of poppies. A singular honour, particularly as I am told poppies are out of season. And Gault-Millau may have their eccentricities, but I can’t believe they would be capable of perpetrating something so juvenile. They have denied all knowledge.’