by Michael Bond
‘One evening I found myself sitting in a restaurant about to tackle a Poularde de Bresse en Vessie – a dish for which I had a particular fancy at the time, and which was supposed to be one of their specialities. I had ordered it in advance an hour or two before my arrival. Poularde de Bresse en Vessie, as you know, consists of a Bresse chicken stuffed with its own liver and a little foie gras and some slices of truffle, poached very gently in a pig’s bladder containing also carrots and leeks …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse knew it only too well, for it was just such a dish that had been the cause of one of his earlier adventures.
‘The owner of the establishment was a brilliant up-and-coming young chef with an assured future. He had inherited the restaurant from his father, who had died earlier that same year. At the time of his father’s death it rated two Stock Pots in Le Guide and two rosettes in Michelin – Gault-Millau didn’t exist in those days – and it was heading for a third award in both. Naturally, on the death of the father, even though to all intents and purposes his son had been in charge for several years, all accolades were withdrawn. The purpose of my visit was to make a preliminary report prior to their reinstatement. At that time there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was a mere formality, but it wasn’t to work out that way.
‘I knew from the moment I entered the restaurant that all was not well; there was a certain “atmosphere”. The first course, feuilleté d’asperges, was beyond reproach, but the maître d’hôtel – one of the old school – was clearly ill at ease. Having presented the poularde to me on a silver dish, he then withdrew to a dark corner of the restaurant for it to be opened up and served, for it was still encased in its vessie. I can still see the pained expression on his face as he returned to my table some minutes later and placed the plate before me.
‘The reason for his behaviour became all too clear the moment I took the first mouthful.
‘To cut a long story short, Aristide, far from being made with a poularde de Bresse, the dish clearly contained a bird of the very worst kind; a cock which must have been obtained at short notice from the local supermarché.
‘Imagine my dilemma. There I was, young and relatively inexperienced, undergoing my first real baptism of fire; not only was my own future at stake, but also the reputation of Le Guide. However, I had to be very sure of my facts. It is one thing making an accusation when you have proof positive – which I would have done had I seen the bird prior to its immersion in the broth. It is quite another matter when you are putting your taste-buds on the line. I took courage in a kind of sixth sense and in the end it didn’t let me down.
‘All the same, I have to tell you, Aristide, that when I asked to see the chef my heart was in my boots. I knew then something of what it must have been like “going over the top” in the first Great War. Heads throughout the restaurant were turned in my direction.
‘It was not a pleasant experience. At first the chef tried to bluster his way out of it. He told me I didn’t know what I was talking about – but his very manner betrayed his guilt. Then he offered me another dish. Finally he tore up my bill and asked me to leave the restaurant before turning on his heels and marching back to the kitchen.
‘When I followed him in there and revealed the true purpose of my visit he became a changed man. First he pleaded that it had all been an unfortunate mistake – he tried to put the blame on one of the young sous-chefs. Then, when he saw he wasn’t getting anywhere, he attempted the final insult. He took me to one side and offered a considerable sum of money if I would go away and forget the whole thing. It was at that moment that I knew I was right. I told him that my report would be submitted that very evening.
‘As I uttered the words something seemed to snap. He picked up a knife – a fearsome weapon – a Sabatier grand couteau de cuisine with a 35cm blade – sharp as a razor – and threatened to kill me. As he advanced across the cuisine he removed a hair from his head and sliced it in two by way of demonstrating what he would do to parts of my anatomy before he plunged them into oil which was already boiling on the stove. He had the face of a madman, Aristide. Sweat was pouring down his face, and as he lunged at me an uncontrollable tic appeared in his right eye. For a moment or two I must confess I really did go in fear of my life. The rest of the kitchen staff had long since fled in panic, leaving me entirely on my own. Fortunately, the maître d’hôtel had taken it upon himself to call the police and they arrived in the nick of time.
‘Two of them grabbed the man from behind, whilst a third had the presence of mind to remove the remaining tools of his trade before he was able to get his hands on them. In the ensuing struggle one of the gendarmes received a flesh wound. I still remember the look of naked hate on the man’s face as he was led away from his restaurant, shouting and screaming and swearing revenge.
‘There is no doubt in my mind that there was a screw loose somewhere, otherwise why would he have done it? There he was, a young man, just starting out in life. Granted, he had inherited the mantle of his father’s success, but already he was gathering plaudits on his own account. He had no need to take short cuts or to make excuses. I can only think that false pride prevented him from saying he had run out of the real thing and, given the nature of the dish – the fact that for most of the time during its cooking the poularde is out of sight – he took a chance. But that doesn’t excuse his action. It was an unforgivable deception.’
‘What happened after that, Monsieur?’
‘I submitted my report and in due course it was passed on to the powers that be. He suffered the usual fate. Those administering the AOC took the appropriate action. There were notices in the local journaux. Other notices were pasted across the window of his restaurant warning people not to patronise it. From that moment on he was ignored by his contemporaries and ostracised by the general public.
‘Can you imagine what that must have meant to an up-and-coming restaurateur? No one to cook for. Above all, no one to shake hands with all day long. It would be bad enough to an ordinary Frenchman, but to the patron of a restaurant, it must have seemed like the end of the world.
‘In due course his case came up and he was sent to prison. The restaurant struggled on for a few weeks without him, but by the time he was released it had closed down. Those in the trade made sure he was never able to work as a chef again.’
‘And where was the restaurant?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse knew the answer even before he posed the question.
‘Need you ask, Pamplemousse? It was the very place you mentioned as we arrived. Belfort.’
‘Do you remember the details, Monsieur?’
‘They are all here, Aristide.’ The Director passed the book across the table. ‘The name of the restaurant and its specialities. The name of the owner. It is the edition prior to the year I made my visit. Alas, it was the last time either name appeared.’
‘And there is no doubt in your mind, Monsieur, that the two people are one and the same?’ Once again, it was a redundant question. There was no other possible explanation. The mention of the nervous tic clinched matters.
‘None whatsoever. He must have been harbouring a grudge against Le Guide over all these years, a grudge which has been growing inside him like a cancer.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse could not but agree, with the proviso that it wasn’t simply Le Guide against whom the man harboured a grudge, but the Director himself as the person responsible for his downfall in the first place. He glanced at the book. The entry for the restaurant had been circled in red. He copied the details into his notebook.
‘It shows the kind of person we are up against, Pamplemousse.’
‘Oui, Monsieur.’
‘Clearly, he is a man who would stop at nothing. A man who would substitute a frozen bird of doubtful ancestry for a poularde de Bresse would be capable of anything.’
‘Have you been back to Belfort since, Monsieur?’
‘I was there several times last year in connection with the computer. On one occasion I took
Madame Grante with me so that she could familiarise herself with the system. She liked the area so much she even talked of going back there for a holiday.’
‘And the restaurant?’
‘It is now a coin-operated dry-cleaning establishment. A sad come-down for what could have been a temple of gastronomy.’
‘And do you still not wish to call in the police, Monsieur, even though your own life is clearly in danger?’
‘No, Aristide. Now, more than ever, the answer has to be “no”.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse knew better than to argue. He was aware of the signs. Once the chief had made up his mind that was that.
‘May I use your telephone, Monsieur?’
‘Go ahead, Pamplemousse.’
He rang Martine Borel’s number. She answered straight away.
‘The name is Dubois. He may be using something else, but I doubt it. With a name like Dubois who needs anonymity? Why make unnecessary complications?’
‘Hold on a moment while I grab a pen.’
Briefly he read out the details.
‘Were you serious about finding credit information?’ There was a pause during which he could hear the rattle of a keyboard. ‘It is not a good time of day.’ She sounded hesitant. ‘The person lives in California and there is a nine-hour time difference; it may take a little while, but I will do my best.’ There was another brief pause. ‘I have an address for him on the Minitel.’
‘Marvellous.’ The wonders of science! He listened as she reeled it off. ‘If I am not in the office try me on …’ He flipped back through his notebook and gave her Madame Grante’s number.
He tried dialling a second number.
Jacques was out on a case; there was no knowing when he would be back. He left the details with an underling. The man seemed less than enthusiastic.
‘That is a long time ago …’
‘Anything would be helpful. He has a record, back in …’ he looked at the date on the outside of Le Guide, ‘1963.
‘It might be worth trying the hotels. He must have been staying somewhere.
‘I’ll get a photo over to you as quickly as possible.
‘No, I don’t know if he is still using the same name …
‘Oui, I know you will have to check with Jacques …’
One thing was for sure, he wasn’t going to end up with dinner at Les Tourelles. The way things were going it would be Taillevant or nothing.
‘Oui, it is urgent.’
It was worth a try. At least it meant he had more than one iron in the fire.
‘What do you think we should do about the oiseau?’ asked the Director as Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver. ‘It seems to have assumed some importance in the eyes of our adversary. He may well try again.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyes heavenwards. He’d forgotten about JoJo’s stand-in. ‘You are right, Monsieur. The oiseau must be put in a place of safety.’ It was better to go along with the idea than try to explain.
‘A matter for security, would you not agree?’
‘Oui, Monsieur.’
‘Bon.’ The Director rose to his feet and crossed to the cage. ‘In that case, Pamplemousse, I suggest you take him with you. I have had the bars straightened, and clearly the oiseau knows something, otherwise why would the man wish to remove it? I have tried to break down the barriers of communication and failed. It is your turn now.’
‘But, Monsieur —’
‘No “buts”, Pamplemousse. That is an order.’
‘In which case, Monsieur, speaking as Head of Security I suggest that you remain in this building until such time as it is safe to leave.’
‘Aristide, is that strictly necessary?’
‘That, too, is an order, Monsieur. Unless, of course, you would prefer me to resign?’
The Director gave a sigh as Monsieur Pamplemousse stood up to leave. ‘Touché, Pamplemousse. But I hope it will not be for too long.’
‘I hope so too, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse spoke with rather more confidence than he felt.
‘One last thing, Aristide …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse paused at the door. ‘Monsieur?’
‘Don’t forget the oiseau!’
9
POMMES FRITES TAKES THE PLUNGE
On his way back to Madame Grante’s apartment Monsieur Pamplemousse called in at the Rue Poncelet and did some shopping. He bought a baguette, still slightly warm to the touch from the second baking of the day, and a tarte aux fraises. Further along the street he called in at a charcuterie and purchased a thick slice of jambon, smoked in oak from the forests of the Ardennes, and some slices of underdone Charolais beef. To this he added a generous helping of black olives and another of gherkins, ten quail’s eggs, a selection of salads, a portion of Camembert Fermier – true, it was a little early in the year, the milk would not yet have reached its best quality, but unpasteurised cheese was becoming more and more difficult to find and it was hard to resist – and a portion of smooth, buttery-looking Roquefort. Laid out on the counter in front of him it added up to a simple enough repast, but it would help tide him over until he was able to order a proper meal. As an afterthought he asked for a slice of pâté forestière – it would go well with the gherkins. Better safe than sorry: he might have a long wait.
In truth, although he had talked to the chief about going to Belfort, there really didn’t seem much point – even if he’d had the time. He now knew all he really needed to know. Paris was where the action was. If necessary he would carry on playing cat and mouse until something concrete turned up.
At an épicerie fine, he treated himself to a bottle of Volnay; an ’80 Clos des Chênes from Michel Lafarge.
He half hoped to see Pommes Frites waiting for him outside Madame Grante’s block, but the street was deserted.
As he took the lift up to her apartment for the third evening running, Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself looking out for signs of life on the other landings. Already he had established a nodding acquaintance with several of the tenants. It was amazing how quickly one was accepted with no questions asked. The saxophone player was at it again.
Once inside the apartment he set to work laying the table, but gradually his pace began to slacken, until by the time he finally drew up a chair and sat down he found he had lost his appetite. It was the kind of meal which needed company.
He poured himself a glass of Volnay instead. It was an impeccable balance of fruit and perfume, an elegant wine, but again, a wine to be shared.
And that was the truth of the matter. He suddenly felt very lonely without Pommes Frites. They would have enjoyed the evening together.
After toying in a desultory fashion with the pâté he tried telephoning the caretaker back at his own apartment. It was just possible that Pommes Frites might have gone home – but he drew a blank. There was no report of his having been seen for several days.
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked out of the window. The gardens at the back of the block were deserted. Lights were beginning to come on in the surrounding buildings. He drew the curtains and then turned on the television. It was ‘Chiffres et Nombres’ again. It was always ‘Chiffres et Nombres’.
At least, judging from the din they were making, JoJo and his companion were enjoying it. In desperation he switched the set off.
Going through the pile of records he found an old Yves Montand selection. Half-way through ‘C’est si bon’ the needle stuck. He tried the Tino Rossi again. It reminded him of his early cinema-going days when he had been courting Doucette. Tino Rossi was forever playing double roles – twin brothers – the good guy and the bad guy. He’d always worn a pencil moustache and had his hair slicked down for the latter part. They were about the only changes he’d made, but for purposes of plot it had always fooled the rest of the cast, especially the girls, so that one had longed to cry out a warning.
Over the cold meats and salads he took the photograph of Madame Grante’s lover from his wallet and propped
it up against the bottle of wine.
Dubois. Being able to put a name to the face somehow helped bring it to life. In a way, the man wasn’t unlike the characters in the Tino Rossi films. He wondered which one Madame Grante had met first of all. The good guy or the bad guy? Either way, there had been no one to shout out a warning, if indeed she would have heeded it. People in love rarely did.
Dressed one way, he could imagine that all the porter had said about Dubois was probably true; he knew the type. On the other hand, wearing his casual clothes there was nothing about the man that would have caused him to stand out in a crowd. Monsieur Pamplemousse certainly didn’t hold out much hope of his being picked up simply on the off-chance of someone recognising him from the picture. In a small town, possibly. People had to go out if only to do the shopping or to eat. But in a city of over ten thousand restaurants, it was too much to ask, and Paris had more than its fair share of sleazy hotels where no questions were asked provided the bill was paid.
What he needed was a break.
It came a few minutes after ten o’clock in the form of a telephone call from Martine.
Monsieur Pamplemousse listened in silence as she reeled off a list of details. There had been no credit problems. Bills had always been paid promptly. Apart from the usual selection of odds and ends most of them were to do with eating out and paying domestic accounts: gas and electricity, local taxes. All related to the Belfort area, and all very innocuous, but he could tell from the tone of her voice that there was more to come.
In early February the pattern had changed. Bills started coming in from farther afield: Montbéliard, Clerval, Laisey, then several from Besançon, two from Dole. They were over a period of several days. Some were from restaurants, but mostly they were for fuel. Whatever the reason for his journey he didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry.
