by Michael Bond
‘I expect your wife will be pleased to see you.’
He gave a start. It was the first time she had spoken of Doucette. ‘How did you know?’
‘You don’t have to be a detective. You seem very well looked after. Sort of complete. Everything nicely ironed and no loose buttons.’
‘Anyway, it won’t be long before you see George again.’ It was the first time he’d spoken his name out loud too. He hesitated, unsure of how to say what he wanted to say.
‘I’m sorry it had to end like this. I’m sure he’ll make up for it.’ George would be raring to go. Deprived of his ‘verts’ for so long there would be no holding him.
Mrs. Cosgrove gave a wry smile. ‘I should be so lucky. Poor old George. He isn’t a bit like that really. Never has been. To tell you the truth, he likes dressing up best.’ The words came out in a rush, as if she wanted to get them over and done with.
‘Dressing up?’
‘You know, women’s clothing and all that sort of thing. He’s got a better wardrobe than I have. Can’t help it, poor dear – especially when there’s a full moon. That’s why I’m here. He had a bit of bad luck in Knightsbridge a few months ago – near the barracks. His case comes up tomorrow and he didn’t want to embarrass me.’
‘A few months. That’s a long time to wait.’
‘Three and a half to be exact. He elected to go for trial by jury. That delayed things a bit.’
‘I trust he has a good lawyer?’
‘The best. An old friend.’ It was her turn to hesitate. ‘I haven’t … you know … for quite a few years now. Well, fifteen actually.’
‘Fifteen years!’
For some reason a quotation from Tolstoy flashed through his mind. ‘Man survives earthquakes, epidemics, the horrors of war, and all the agonies of the soul, but the tragedy that has always tormented him, and always will, is the tragedy of the bedroom.’ He thought of all the ‘Georges’ he’d arrested in his time, for no better reason than that they were dressed unconventionally as members of the opposite sex. He suddenly felt very sorry for George, that grey figure in the photograph. To be married to Mrs. Cosgrove, and yet … Mon Dieu! Such waste! And what of her? He wondered if she had always gone in for exotic underwear – just in case. Perhaps she made do with George’s cast-offs.
‘That is terrible.’
‘I know. But there you are. They say that what you’ve never had you don’t miss. Perhaps you and I weren’t meant. Still,’ she lowered her eyes, ‘the little we had was nice. There I go, using that dreadful word again. It wasn’t just “nice”; it was wonderful!’ She glanced up suddenly and pressed her lips against his.
The station clock showed a minute to go. In less than a minute there would be a hiss and the doors would close automatically. Ever since train drivers had had deductions made from their statutory bonus for every minute they were late arriving they had made sure they left on time.
He hesitated. There would be other trains; other days. What was so special about catching one at four thirty-three in the morning? As he took Mrs. Cosgrove in his arms and felt the warmth of her cheek against his, he caught Pommes Frites’ eye. Pommes Frites didn’t exactly shake his head, but his look said it all.
He was right, of course. There was no going back. Wheels had been set in motion. There would be questions to answer, forms to fill in. He would have to justify his expenses at the pharmacie on a P39. Despite having carte blanche from the Director, Madame Grante would not be at all sympathetic. It would take a lot of explaining.
As the train pulled out and Mrs. Cosgrove became a lone dot on the platform he settled back in his seat and closed his eyes. He pictured her in his mind’s eye stopping somewhere on the way back to Château Morgue to watch the sunrise. It was always worse for the one who was left behind. The thought of her loneliness filled him with sadness.
Perhaps he would telephone her when he got back. It would be against the rules, but at least it would let her know that he was still thinking of her; that she wasn’t just a ship that had passed in the night.
He would have to think up a good reason. Something innocuous … something … Already a corner of his mind was thinking ahead, trying at the same time to fight off a drowsiness brought on by the motion of the train and the warmth of the carriage. The sooner he marshalled his thoughts and got down to the task of writing his report the better. At least on the journey back he wouldn’t be bothered by Ananas. Nor would he have to act out the charade of being blind.
He looked down at Pommes Frites. Pommes Frites had no such problems. He was already curled up on the floor and fast asleep. It must be nice being a dog and not having to justify everything you did.
10
THE MEN FROM THE MINISTRY
‘Entrez!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse used the brief moment between knocking on the door of the Director’s office and responding to the command by taking a deep mental breath. He had totally lost track of time since his last visit. In some respects it felt like only yesterday, in other ways it could have been weeks or even months. By his side, Pommes Frites, clearly sensible to the importance of the occasion, peered at his reflection in a full length mirror hanging in the outer office. He seemed reasonably satisfied by what he saw.
Normally, although Pommes Frites’ existence was accepted (there had even been talk at one time of giving him his own P39s, but this had been quashed by Madame Grante) his visits to the office of Le Guide were restricted to the typing pool on the ground floor. It was a long time since he’d been invited up to the holy of holies.
‘Entrez!’ The voice was louder this time, and slightly impatient. It coincided with his opening the door.
‘Pamplemousse! Welcome back.’ The Director came round to the front of his desk, arms outstretched in welcome.
For one dreadful moment Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he was about to be embraced. He hoped his momentary recoil had passed unnoticed.
‘And Pommes Frites.’
The Director covered their mutual embarrassment by bending down to administer a pat. Pommes Frites looked even more surprised than his master. Such a thing had never happened before. He responded by jumping up and putting his paws on the Director’s shoulders.
‘Ah, yes. Bon chien.’ The Director removed a handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed at his face. Pommes Frites’ tongue was large and rather wet.
‘Gentlemen …’ He turned and Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly realised they were not alone. Sitting beneath the portrait of Hippolyte Duval were two anonymous-looking men, immaculately clad in Identikit dark blue suits and matching ties. There was a third figure sitting to one side and slightly behind them. To his surprise he saw it was Inspector Chambard.
He wished now he had put on a suit or worn a jacket rather than a polo-necked jersey. The invitation had sounded informal; come as you are – a kind of end-of-term get-together with the headmaster. Obviously there was more to it than that.
‘Gentlemen, Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites.’ The Director motioned him forward. ‘Inspector Chambard I think you have already met. These two gentlemen are from the Ministère.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took due note of the fact that neither the Ministry nor its representatives were mentioned by name.
The taller of the two men rose to greet him. ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse, we have come to offer our congratulations. We have received a copy of your report and I can only describe it as a minor masterpiece.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse tried hard to conceal his surprise. ‘It is nothing. I merely put down the facts as I saw them.’
‘You are too modest.’ The second of the two men joined his colleague. ‘Facts, yes. It is what you did with them that matters.’
‘A tour de force.’
‘Brilliantly simple.’
‘Fantastic, yet not impossible.’
The dialogue came out so smoothly Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself wondering if they had spent the morning rehearsing it. Perhaps whichever
Ministry it was they worked for employed them as a roving double act.
‘Tell me, Pamplemousse,’ the Director was not going to be outdone in his own office, ‘have you ever considered taking up writing for a living? We would hate to lose you, but clearly you have a flair for plot construction. I must confess it is something which has escaped me in the past when reading your culinary reports. They are always very elegant, of course, not to say mouth-watering on occasions, but often bordering on the verbose – like some of your articles in the Staff Magazine. However, this …’ He sat down behind his desk and picked up what Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised as a copy of his report. Attached by means of an outsize paper-clip were some blow-ups taken from the roll of film he’d left at the same time. ‘This –’
‘Could be your greatest work of fiction,’ broke in the first of the two men, taking up the running again. He seemed slightly put out by the interruption. ‘I shall always treasure the picture you conjure up of Château Morgue. Those little old ladies pedalling away like mad on their cycling machines.’ He broke into a chuckle. ‘The notion of them all developing outsize calves as a result was a master-stroke.’
‘And the tea parties beforehand. We mustn’t forget the tea parties.’ His companion allowed himself a smile too. ‘The mountains of pâtisserie they consumed – all fresh from the bakery in the Tower Block.’
‘And for what?’
‘So that their heart conditions would be exacerbated to such an extent that violent exercise immediately afterwards would bring about an early death –’
‘Having, of course, first rewritten their Wills in favour of the Schmucks. We mustn’t forget that.’
‘Ici Paris will have a field day.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed around the room. The reception being accorded to his report wasn’t at all what he had expected. He listened with growing irritation to the peals of uncontrolled laughter.
‘Tell me, Pamplemousse,’ the Director wiped his eyes in an effort to restore calm. ‘What gave you the idea? You have the happy knack of making it sound as though you believe every word you have written.’
Feeling somewhat out of his depth, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to play for time. He said nothing.
The Director misinterpreted his silence. ‘Gentlemen, if I may say so, that is typical of the man. Modest to a fault.’
He crossed to a cupboard and withdrew a set of keys from his hip pocket. As he unlocked and opened the door a light came on to reveal a collection of bottles. ‘I think this calls for a little celebration. Aristide, you set the ball rolling. What will you have?’
Reaching inside the cupboard he opened another door at the back. A second light came on, reflected this time by a frosty interior. ‘This may interest you – a Malvoisie. It comes from a small grower in the Loire. The last of a dying breed. When he goes I doubt if anyone else will make it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse accepted with alacrity. Apart from providing a welcome change of subject, he was looking forward to the experience. He had come across fleeting references to it in books. Made from the same grape variety as Tokay, its history dated back to the days when the trade routes of Asia Minor all passed through Malvasia. The fact that someone was still making it in the Loire was a discovery indeed.
He held his glass up to the light. The colour was pale and straw-like, the flavour on the nose sweet but not cloying, with just a hint of complexity. Altogether a delicious interlude and one which drew murmurs of appreciation all round the room. Le Guide, he was pleased to see, was upholding its reputation.
Tongues loosened, a common bond established, the Director refilled the glasses and returned to his desk.
‘You think the press will buy Pamplemousse’s story?’
‘If we point them in the right direction. The press will buy anything if it sells more copies. Besides, in a perverse kind of way it is too far-fetched for them not to.’ The leader of the two men turned to his companion for confirmation.
‘I agree. And if the newspapers swallow it, then so will the public. There’s nothing they like better than a good, juicy scandal.’
‘The truth is somewhat more prosaic.’
‘It must not go beyond these four walls.’
‘Certain people are involved.’
‘Members of the “International Set” … Ministers …’
‘Governments could fall.’
‘Those involved will be punished, of course, but in a roundabout way. They will quietly disappear from the public eye. There will be a number of “early retirements” around the world. A few “golden handshakes”. It is better that way.’
‘Others will be leant on. They will find life that much more difficult from now on. Some will disappear from the television screens for a while.’ It sounded like a passing reference to Ananas. Really, the whole thing was too tantalising for words.
Inspector Chambard reached for his wallet and took out a card. ‘I must say you kept us on our toes one way and another.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start as he recognised his postcard to Doucette. No wonder she had complained about not receiving one. And to think he had blamed the office of the Postes et Télécommunications.
‘We knew straight away that it must contain a hidden message of some kind, but you have no idea how long it took us to find it. The expression “cous-cous” had us fooled for quite a while.’
‘It is what I sometimes call my wife,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘It is a term of endearment I use when we are apart.’
‘So we discovered … in the end!’ Inspector Chambard sounded reproachful.
‘We had our best men working on it. They tried all the usual things. The message under the stamp routine – the fact that it was on upside down bothered them. They even tried the old invisible ink out of milk ploy. And there it was – staring us in the face all the time.’ He turned the card over and held it up for the others to see. ‘A cross marking “my floor” – the floor where it was all happening – and the words “wish you were here”. It was a good job we’d been warned, though. We had the biggest turntable ladder the Narbonne Corps de Sapeurs-Pompiers could provide, well able to reach up to the roof.’
‘The simplest ideas are always the best in the long run, eh, Aristide?’ Basking in the reflection of his subordinate’s glory, the Director rose and crossed to the cupboard again.
‘Communication was the big problem.’ Inspector Chambard turned to the other two as he held out his glass. ‘We had been told to stand by but not to interfere; to await orders. We had our man in there – posing as a chauffeur. But I don’t mind telling you, when we lost him I was worried.’
‘The chauffeur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself clutching at straws of information. ‘You have lost him?’
‘He was involved in an accident on the N9. The man is a fool. It seems he hit a sudden patch of sunlight, put on some dark glasses he’d found in the back of the car, and drove straight into a tree.’
‘He wasn’t …’
‘No. He will be out of hospital in a couple of weeks – which is more than you can say of the car.’
‘Your photographs proved most valuable.’ It was back to the man from the Ministry again. ‘Take this one … Pardon, Monsieur.’ He reached across and took one of the enlargements from the pile on the Director’s desk. ‘What you so delightfully refer to as the kitchen is in reality Doctor Furze’s laboratory. At a rough guess – and you probably know more about these things than I do – there must be over fifty kilogrammes of cocaine in each bowl.’
‘An on-the-street value of around seventy million francs.’
‘Grown in Columbia.’
‘Brought in through Spain and across the Pyrénées.’
‘Distributed to the larger centres in Paris and Marseilles via the coffins.’
‘Delivered to the smaller markets inside hollowed-out saucisses and saucissons.’
‘Whenever the time was ripe for a major arrival or distribution there was
a convenient death at Château Morgue.’
‘Madame Schmuck would go into her routine. She was well equipped for it.’
‘She was born of a Spanish father and an Italian mother.’
‘They were both mime artists in a travelling theatre in Russia, she found herself on the stage from the word go. Old ladies were her speciality – even as a teenager.’
‘A change of clothes, a new set of coloured contact lenses, a different wig. It was right up her street.’
‘She would arrive at the Château, expire at a convenient moment, and the wheels would begin to turn. The “undertakers” would arrive and take her away. Then she would revert to being Madame Schmuck again.’
‘No one ever stops a hearse.’
‘Pouf!’ Inspector Chambard gave a snort. ‘To think, the number of times I have saluted that hearse! I have even held up the traffic so that it could get through.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sank back into his chair. The picture was suddenly all too clear. The van he’d seen in the car park on his arrival: it had probably been delivering a fresh batch of charcuterie that very evening. No wonder its disappearance had caused such consternation. He paled at the thought of what might have happened had the saucisses already been filled with cocaine. Both he and Pommes Frites would have been on a high from which there would have been no return.
He glanced at the other photographs. Blown up to twenty-five by twenty, it was easy to see the likeness between Frau Schmuck and the woman he’d first met in his room, and again on the stretcher. Except that was being wise after the event. It was amazing the difference a wig and a pair of coloured contact lenses could make. No wonder they’d all had thick calves – that was one thing she couldn’t change.
