by Michael Bond
‘She was in the audience?’
‘No, she was watching the show from his apartment.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse tried a different tack. ‘How about the Staff nurse?’
‘The usual one was on holiday,’ said Julian. ‘She was from an agency. All she did was phone for help. I can get her name if you like.’
Before Monsieur Pamplemousse had time to reply the studio manager’s voice broke in over the talkback. ‘Ready when you are…’
‘Right… stand by for a run through…’ The director turned back to the desk.
‘Sorry about this. Needs must. I wish you luck with finding out who did it, but not too much. And give whoever it was regards from us all.’
As though on cue, there was a burst of recorded applause from the sound gallery. It would have been music to Jacques’ ears. So far he had yet to hear anyone with a good word to say about the deceased.
Pommes Frites was waiting for them behind the door when they got back to the apartment. He seemed excited about something. As soon as they entered he ran back to the kitchen.
‘He looks as though he’s trying to tell you something,’ said Julian.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at his watch. ‘I think he is trying to tell me it is time for déjeuner. He is a stickler for punctuality.’
Stationing himself in front of a large store cupboard Pommes Frites braced himself and gave vent to his feelings in no uncertain terms.
The feeling of frustration had been building up inside him ever since he’d arrived in the apartment, so when the growl did emerge it was much louder than he had intended; louder and deeper, for it had travelled all the way up from the pit of his stomach, gathering momentum on the way. It made everybody jump, himself included.
‘I wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night,’ said Julian.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He wouldn’t normally hurt a fly.’
‘It’s not the flies I’m worried about,’ said Julian.
‘People always associate Bloodhounds in their mind with the Hound of the Baskervilles,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But nothing could be further from the truth. They are the gentlest of creatures. Pommes Frites would only attack someone if he thought they were attacking me. It is their sense of smell they are most prized for. The holder of the record for the highest number of arrests is an American dog called “Nick Carter”. He was responsible for over 600.
‘Pommes Frites was sniffer dog of the year during his time with the Paris Sûreté,’ he added proudly.
‘On the other hand…’ He recognised the signs. The set of the tail; the pulsating nostrils; the stiffening of the muscles… they were like a tightly coiled spring waiting to be released. ‘Permettez-moi!’
Flinging open the cupboard door, he stood back.
The middle shelf was like a miniature épicerie. Bottles and packets of various herbs, spices and other flavourings were neatly laid out in alphabetical order. Most of them looked unused. Without the slightest hesitation Pommes Frites homed in on the A’s.
It was not what Monsieur Pamplemousse had expected.
‘A good try though,’ said Julian. ‘How many arrests did you say he was he responsible for while he was with the police?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gruffly.
‘He took early retirement,’ he added hastily, trying hard to hide his disappointment. Having given Pommes Frites such a large build-up it was galling to have him make the elementary mistake of confusing the smell of almond essence with that of cyanide. He felt let down.
The pager on Julian’s mobile began to ring. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ he asked.
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. While he was waiting for the call to be taken he gave Pommes Frites a pat. Perhaps, like the rest of them, he was beginning to feel his age. It was all too easy to lose track of time.
‘Randy wants to see you before you go,’ said Julian.
‘I should count your fingers afterwards if she shakes hands,’ he added, as they parted company.
It sounded like good advice.
Chapter Seven
Ramona D. Katz was busy with the coffee machine when Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites arrived back in her office.
‘Ah, Mr. Grapefruit. You wanna cup?’
‘Thank you, no.’
‘Pity. It’s arabica. I have it sent specially from illycaffè in Italy. It’s the bees knees.’
‘I’m trying to cut down,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Doctor’s orders.’
‘I like you, Grapefruit,’ said Mademoiselle Katz. ‘You have fine qualities. A straight talker like you should live to be a hundred and twenty. If things were different you and me could become an item.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘I’d hate anything should happen to you in the meantime.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Curiosity killed the cat. You want a piece of friendly advice? If I were you, for the time being I wouldn’t walk under any ladders – it could bring you bad luck.’ With her free hand she tapped the armband. ‘I don’t want I should have to wear another one of these. I have one too many already. Anyway, it’s like I say… maybe we should meet up sometime. Your dog too. What’s his name?’
‘Pommes Frites.’
‘Pommes Frites! I like it! We’d make a great ménage à trois.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse did his best to suppress a shudder at the thought.
‘Sure you won’t have a cup?’
‘Certain.’ The smell was out of this world. If he stayed much longer he might succumb.
‘Ciao!’ Madamoiselle Katz added four lumps of sugar to her cup. ‘Give me a call if you change your mind. If you ever feel like an upgrade you know where to find me.’
‘You shall be the first to know.’
He wondered. Death or dishonour? Becoming an item with the Directeur Génèral had all the makings of a fate worse than death. It was hard to picture what Doucette might say if they all arrived home together one evening.
There was a spring in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s step as they left the Centre de Télévision et Ciné de la Butte. One way and another he wasn’t sorry to be out and about in the real world again.
Pommes Frites hurried on ahead to investigate a man wielding an enormous pair of bolt-cutters. He was attempting to slice through a security chain on his parked motor-cycle. Or somebody else’s motor-cycle!
Undoubtedly the latter, for as soon Monsieur Pamplemousse drew near he took one look and made off as fast as he could go.
Further down the Rue Lepic, towards Boulevard Clichy, a huge negro transvestite wearing a minuscule leopard-skin patterned dress slit up the side beckoned to them from a doorway as they went past, then just as quickly faded into the background.
It reminded Monsieur Pamplemousse of Mademoiselle Katz. Had she been issuing a genuine warning, or was it simply her idea of a joke? If that were the case it was in very poor taste. Not that taste probably figured largely in her repertoire. It was hard to picture what she went home to at night.
The world of make-believe took over once again as they neared the bottom of the Rue Lepic.
The café-tabac Les Deux Moulins, featured in the film Amélie, was packed to overflowing. Groups of tourists hovered outside, taking pictures of groups of tourists inside, taking pictures of them taking pictures. It was a form of perpetual motion.
According to Doucette the same scene was played out most days at a local greengrocers which had also featured in the film.
He seized the opportunity to complete the circle. It was a good chance to test the Director’s latest investment. In his never-ending search for lightweight equipment, Monsieur Leclercq had acquired some Kyocera S5 digital still cameras. Thickness aside, they were of credit card dimensions; ideal for the unobtrusive recording of hotels and restaurants for Le Guide’s archives.
Eye glued to the optical viewfinder rather than the small video screen – being a new toy he di
dn’t want to risk putting too much strain on the battery – he concentrated on the task in hand.
It wasn’t until he went to slip the camera back into his pocket that he realised Pommes Frites had disappeared. He was about to reach for the silent dog whistle he always carried with him, when he saw a familiar figure emerge from an épicerie on the other side of the road.
Pommes Frites bounded towards him, hotly pursued by a man in a white coat. ‘Is this your dog, Monsieur?’
Having been singled out, Monsieur Pamplemousse could scarcely deny it.
‘He should be on a leash! Can you not see the sign on the door? Chiens interdit.’
‘He is a something of a gourmet,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, doing his best to ignore the fact that Pommes Frites now had his eye on something remarkably obscene lying in the gutter. It looked like a chicken’s entrails.
‘It is his day off,’ he added, anxious to pour oil on troubled waters, ‘but he never rests. He recognises true quality when he sees it.’
‘Smells it you mean,’ said the shop owner. ‘It is bad enough when customers enter my shop and start nosing around, but dogs I can live without…’
Monsieur Pamplemousse followed the man back across the road. ‘It comes naturally to a Bloodhound,’ he said. ‘They are born sniffers.’
‘Through glass?’ The shop owner pointed to a pile of jars on the floor. ‘It took my girl half the morning to make them into a pyramid.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had been about to offer to pay for any damage, but he changed his mind when he saw how many there were.
‘He has an eye for labels too,’ he said lamely. ‘He may have been looking for something in particular.’ A thought struck him as he took a closer look. ‘Just lately he seems to have developed a taste for almonds…’
Pommes Frites didn’t actually give vent to a sigh as Monsieur Pamplemousse selected one of the jars. Nor did he bother raising his eyebrows to high heaven when he saw him paying for it – they would have been scarcely visible amongst the folds in his skin if he had – but it was very frustrating. Clearly, for the time being at least, he and his master were on different wavelengths. It wasn’t his fault the jar he was interested in had been in the bottom row. On closer inspection it hadn’t been what he was looking for anyway.
‘What about the others?’ The man barred their way. ‘They are covered in saliva. They will all need to be washed before they can be put back on display.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse braced himself. ‘Doubtless your girl – the one who made such an admirable job of stacking them in the first place, will be able to do it again in half the time now she is practised in the art.’
‘Look here…’ began the man belligerently. Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at him. ‘No, you look here. Any more from you, Monsieur, and I will have your premises closed down for possession of drugs.’
‘Drugs? I have no drugs…’
‘You will by the time the boys have paid you a visit.’
‘You wouldn’t dare…’
‘Try me!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse grimly.
It was a shot in the dark, but it went home. Ignoring the man’s stammered apologies, Monsieur Pamplemousse led the way out of the shop. Once again, it was just like old times.
Following in his master’s footsteps, Pommes Frites looked better pleased, as though he had got a point home at long last. His effort, too, had been a shot in the dark. Having drawn a blank, there was no point in wasting any further time on it.
Together they made their way down to the Boulevard de Clichy.
The sun was shining, and even the Place Blanche, not normally the most salubrious of sights during the hours of daylight, seemed to have an air about it. The freshly painted paddles of the mock windmill outside the Moulin Rouge, a symbol of Paris in general at the end of the nineteenth century and Montmartre’s pastoral beginnings in particular, reflected the light as though they were proud of the fact and had every intention of keeping it that way.
The girls might no longer perform their dance routine inside a giant model elephant as they had done in the early days, but the windmill still turned slowly every night as though beckoning people to enter.
In many respects parallels could be drawn with Las Vegas. It was at night that the two really came alive. Las Vegas with its casinos; the Boulevard de Clichy with its massage parlours, sex shops, “live shows” catering for all tastes – femmes, lesbiennes, couples, table danse. Tattoo parlours, all-night cafés, hot-dog stands, clubs where the price of champagne rocketed skywards, the dazzling array of multicoloured neon lights; all played their part, merging into one vast montage given over to the pursuit of hedonistic pleasures.
And in the morning the police would send round the “salad basket” to pick up the flotsam and jetsam of human frailty, sending them on their way, richer or poorer for the experience.
While they were waiting for the traffic lights to change, the motorised Petit Train de Montmartre drew up alongside the central paved area. Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the elderly passengers benevolently as they disembarked. They looked like members of an out-of-town boules club. He wondered what memories they would take back home with them.
As if in answer to his thoughts, a mixed group broke away from the main body and headed across the road towards Pornissimo Ciné Sex. They, at least, were playing it safe.
Those that were left would do well to hold on to their wallets, or to their female companion’s apron strings. Most of the “girls” out to catch the lunchtime trade would look better after dark. Love might be for sale, but it was at a price. You got what you paid for, no more and often a lot less. Time was money. No one was admired for themselves alone and an old-age pension wouldn’t go very far.
Setting off in an easterly direction towards Pigalle he passed a man holding forth to two others about a woman friend who had taken up the life of a pimp. Was there nothing sacred? She wasn’t even including him in on the deal! As they squeezed past he stopped talking abruptly and stared after them.
Monsieur Pamplemousse returned his gaze.
The visit to the studios hadn’t thrown up much in the way of new information. In retrospect he wasn’t sure why he had gone there in the first place, except you had to start somewhere.
Jacques was right about one thing. If the powers that be were anxious to sweep the whole thing under the carpet, what was the point in him swimming against the tide? It was simply that old habits died hard and the whole thing was untidy. His appetite had been whetted. There was something about the affair that didn’t quite gel.
In a sense, standing back and viewing things dispassionately from the sidelines, the question of who had killed Chavignol was of minor importance beside the finding of the photographs. It was more a matter of priorities, although he couldn’t help feeling that solving one might provide an answer to the other.
In any case, with Chavignol gone they would still have Claudette to deal with, and in all probability she would show even less mercy than her husband when it came to the crunch.
A couple standing in the middle of the pavement were having a slanging match at the top of their voices.
Most of the passers-by gave them a wide berth, stepping into the road to get past. It was hard to tell what the row was about for it was more finger wagging and name-calling than anything. Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t fancy the man’s chances. He was puny by the side of the woman. One swipe from her handbag would have floored him. Love made strange bedfellows.
Once again, as he squeezed past, close enough to be nearly asphyxiated by the smell of cheap perfume, they gave him a strange look and suddenly lowered their voices.
He wondered what it was about him that day. Did the fact that to all intents and purposes he was back on a case lend him a certain air? Once acquired, never lost.
The sight of the couple led to another thought. Both statistically and historically, poison was always thought of as being a woman’s prerogative. He wondered how much of the story Claude
tte had told Monsieur Leclercq was true, or had she made it all up?
Had she been drawn in to Chavignol’s world against her will, or had the boot been on the other foot? Experience had taught him not to be surprised by any aspect of human behaviour.
Whatever the answer, there were no two ways about it. The number one priority was to get hold of the photographs, and to do it as quickly as possible. Bungling the attempt would set alarm bells ringing and if that happened they might never be found. If his hunch that they were kept in Claudette’s bedroom were correct – and apart from finding the safe, he really only had the Director’s story to back that theory up – then with or without Jacques, help he must work out a plan.
While he was in the area, there was one other call he had in mind. Taking a turn to the left he set off up a side street.
Poupées Fantastiques was where it had always been; yet another monument to Montmartre’s dedication to the pursuit of pleasure in all its forms.
Leaving Pommes Frites outside for the moment, he entered a tiny reception area, unchanged since his last visit.
The proprietor, Oscar, emerged from behind the scenes. He, too, was as he remembered him; fat, oily, anxious to please; as unctuous in his way as Chavignol had been, but without his veneer.
‘You may remember,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse by way of introduction, ‘I bought a gonflable from you many years ago. It was an inflatable dog kennel, in fact. I had it specially made to my own design. It even had a place for the food bowl.’
‘Monsieur Pamplemousse!’ There was the familiar washing of the hands in invisible soap. ‘I trust it gave you satisfaction.’
‘It was not for me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse stiffly.
Oscar gave him a wink. ‘That is what they all say.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stifled the reply he would have liked to make. It was hard to be cross with someone who remembered your name after the passage of so much time.
