by Michael Bond
‘Legs … paws …’ broke in Monsieur Leclercq, ‘they are both problem areas and neither of you are alone in that respect.
‘It is another area that is of concern to the accountants. The group insurance rate for our inspectors is the highest for the whole organisation. Only the other day, Madame Grante reminded me of the fact that according to the Association of Insurance Actuaries, the life expectancy of an average food inspector is less than that of a garbage collector in Outer Mongolia … her memo made depressing reading.’
‘Most of Madame Grante’s memos make depressing reading,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, it is all very well for her. She hardly eats more than a mouse on a diet; her own carbon footprint doesn’t bear thinking about. It must be the size of a flea’s.
‘As for those of us out on the road, sampling dishes across the length and breadth of France, I grant you weight is an occupational hazard. Two meals a day, week in and week out, may sound like a dream occupation to most people, but it can be quite the reverse. I count myself fortunate in having Pommes Frites always at my side, in a state of constant readiness to help out when required.
‘Furthermore, if I may say so, the Association of Insurance Actuaries fails to take account of the fact that the “Silent Forks” column of our staff magazine, commemorating those who have passed away, has, over the years, been entirely made up of staff who were desk-bound. Since I joined the company no inspector has yet shed his mortal coil during the course of duty.’
It was a long and spirited speech, and even Pommes Frites looked up admiringly at his master when he finally came to an end.
‘Yet is the key word, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq mildly.
‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘in order to ensure I am not the first, I should, for the second time in my life, take early retirement.’
Clearly, he had struck a nerve. The Director went pale at the thought.
‘You mustn’t even consider it, Aristide,’ he said. ‘Certainly not at this present juncture. I would hate anything to happen to you, and I am only speaking for your own good. Which is why …’ he began playing nervously with the logo, ‘which is the main reason why I have called you in at this early hour.’
The fact that from time to time Monsieur Leclercq had been using his given name hadn’t escaped Monsieur Pamplemousse’s notice. It was an old ploy. Get rid of various irksome matters first, undermine the opposition’s confidence with threats of possible reprisals over minor matters, leaving them wondering what would happen next. Then, and only then, soften your approach. The Director was a dab hand at it. Not for nothing was he a product of a French grande école.
If past form was anything to go by, the true reason for their being summoned was about to be revealed.
‘What is the best thing that ever happened to you, Aristide?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq, settling back in his chair once again.
Momentarily thrown, and sensing he might unwittingly be trapped into doing something he didn’t want to do, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave careful consideration to his response.
‘Leaving aside the obvious things, like meeting my dear wife, I would say the moment when I retired from the Sûreté and they gave me Pommes Frites as a leaving present.’
‘And the worst?’
‘The day in the South of France when he disappeared into the Nice sewerage system and I thought he was lost for ever. If you remember, Monsieur, Doucette and I were taking a holiday in Juan-les-Pins. We had been planning to spend it in Le Touquet, but you very kindly suggested the change in return for picking up a painting in Nice on behalf of Madame Leclercq.
‘It got off to a bad start when we had to witness a performance of West Side Story, given by the mixed infants at a nearby Russian School. Then, you may recall, that very same night a dismembered body was washed up outside our hotel, and from then on it was downhill all the way.’
Monsieur Leclercq gave a shudder. ‘Please don’t remind me, Pamplemousse,’ he said. ‘There are some things I would much sooner forget.’
‘When Pommes Frites finally emerged,’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘he wasn’t exactly smelling of roses.’
‘May I ask what is the second thing which springs to mind, Aristide?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq casually.
Sensing the other’s disappointment and putting two and two together, Monsieur Pamplemousse essayed a stab in the dark. ‘Undoubtedly the day when, quite by chance, we bumped into each other in the street,’ he said. ‘That, too, came about through Pommes Frites. We were taking a walk together.’
Monsieur Leclercq looked relieved. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you all these years, Aristide,’ he said simply. ‘It was a happy chance that led us to meet as we did.’
‘One turns a corner,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and one’s whole life changes. I certainly have no cause for regret.’
‘I have a big favour to ask of you, Aristide.’
‘Monsieur has only to ask,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, privately wishing the Director would get on with whatever it was he had in mind.
‘Glancing through your P27,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I see that, apart from the many accomplishments you list, particularly those acquired during your time in the police force, weapon training and so on, you are clearly not without literary aspirations.’
‘A great deal of my time in the Paris Sûreté was spent writing reports,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In some respects it is a very bureaucratic organisation. One always endeavoured to make them as clear and succinct as possible; marshalling the facts to prove the point in such a way as to leave no room for doubt. Defending lawyers are past masters in the art of ferreting out any loophole in the law.’
‘Have you ever thought of taking your writing more seriously?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘Since joining Le Guide all I have done is contribute a few articles to L’Escargot.’
‘The staff magazine would have been all the poorer without them,’ said the Director. ‘I particularly enjoyed your last piece, “Whither le coq au vin”.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was beginning to wonder where the conversation was leading. It felt as though they were getting nowhere very fast.
‘Apart from one or two outlying districts in Burgundy,’ he said, ‘the dish is becoming more and more of a rarity. Its preparation is time consuming and, as you wisely remarked earlier, the emphasis everywhere these days is on speed. As for my taking up writing, that also requires time. And thinking time is becoming a rare luxury these days.’
‘That being the case, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘how would you feel if I were to grant you a few weeks unofficial leave? Over and above your normal quota, of course,’ he added hastily. ‘Both you and Pommes Frites have been very busy on extra curricular activities of late. You could do with some quality time at home.’
‘I must admit,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that when I first joined Le Guide I pictured leading a more tranquil life. In many respects, as Doucette reminded me only the other day, it has been quite the reverse.
‘There was that unfortunate affair involving your wife’s Uncle Caputo. His connections with the Mafia must be a constant source of worry to you.
‘Prior to that there was the case of the poisoned chocolates … If you remember, Pommes Frites accidentally overdosed on some aphrodisiac tablets and ran amok among the canine guests in the Pommes d’Or hotel. It’s a wonder people still take their pets with them when they stay there.
‘Then, more recently, there was your unfortunate encounter with the young lady who was masquerading as a nun on the flight back from America. The one who invited you to join the Mile High Club …’
‘Please, Pamplemousse, I do not wish to be reminded of these things.’ Monsieur Leclercq held up his hand. ‘You have yet to answer my question.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse chose his words with care. ‘The suggestion is not without its attractions, Monsieur. On the other
hand, I find it hard to picture being idle for that length of time …’
‘Oh, you won’t be idle, Aristide,’ broke in the Director. ‘Not at this particular juncture. You can rest assured on that score.’
There it was again! Monsieur Pamplemousse’s eyes narrowed. ‘When you use the word “juncture”, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘what exactly do you mean?’
‘Really, Aristide …’ Monsieur Leclercq brushed aside the question impatiently, much as he might dispose of an errant fly about to make a forced landing in his glass of d’Yquem. ‘The word “juncture” simply underlines the fact that at this point in time we have reached a moment critique in our fortunes. A window of opportunity has presented itself, which, if all goes well, will provide us with a golden opportunity to hit a home run.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse winced. Anyone less likely than the Director to hit a home run in the accepted sense of the word would be hard to image.
‘Am I to take it, Monsieur, that you have a solution in mind, and that I can help in some way?’
‘That,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘sums the whole thing up in the proverbial nutshell.
‘I am not normally superstitious, Aristide,’ he continued, ‘but when I woke this morning and found not one but two blackbirds perched on my bedroom window sill, I feared the worst. I mistrust one blackbird, but two …
‘Then, when my wife explained to me that not only was it a good omen, but a singularly rare one at that, I felt a sudden surge of excitement. It was a case of cause and effect. Chantal’s enthusiasm was contagious. On my way into the office this morning the way ahead and the solution to our problems in America became clear.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse exchanged glances with Pommes Frites as the Director crossed to the door, made sure it was properly shut, then returned to his desk and, having phoned Véronique to ensure they were not disturbed, sat back in his chair and beamed at them.
The preliminaries off his chest so to speak, he was starting to look positively rejuvenated, almost as though a great weight had been lifted from his mind.
‘I knew I could rely on you, Aristide,’ he said. ‘In fact …’ breaking off, he rose to his feet again and headed for the drinks cabinet.
‘I think it calls for a celebration. Some of your favourite Gosset champagne, perhaps? Or shall I open a bottle of the Roullet très hors age cognac?’ His hand hovered over the glasses. ‘The choice is yours. Which is it to be?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. He was unaware of having even remotely agreed to anything. ‘I hope you won’t think I am being difficult,’ he said, ‘but without knowing exactly what we are celebrating it is hard to reach a decision.’
He should have known better.
For a brief moment Monsieur Leclercq looked suitably chastened. ‘You are absolutely right, Aristide,’ he exclaimed. ‘I am so excited by the turn of events I am getting ahead of myself.’
He struck one of his Napoleonic poses; a pose honed to perfection over the years by taking in the view from his window of the Emperor’s last resting place beneath the golden dome of the nearby Hôtel des Invalides.
‘Pamplemousse,’ he said grandly, ‘I have a plan of campaign! It is my wish to run it up the flagpole and see if, in your view, it flies.
‘If your answer is in the affirmative, then it is really a question of pulling all the right levers, and for that we shall need what is known as a road map.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily opted for a glass of champagne. It was a good buck-you-up at any time of the day or night, and he suddenly felt in need of one.
* * *
‘Monsieur Leclercq has a plan?’ repeated Doucette over dinner. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘It is what he calls a “road map”, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I must say I was a bit sceptical myself at first.’
‘How many weeks will it take you?’
‘That all depends on how many dead ends I come across,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse vaguely. He toyed with the remains of his dessert. ‘It needs to be in place before the start of the racing season in Deauville.’
‘It would never do to miss that,’ said Doucette dryly.
‘It is all mixed up with the annual staff party at his summer residence,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As always, wives are invited too, only this year, if all goes well, there will be an extra guest; a very important one.’
‘July? That’s over two months away.’
‘Just think,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘All that time at home.’ He spooned the remains of the dessert onto his plate. ‘Once again, Couscous, tell me the recipe for this delicious concoction. What is it called? Crème bachique?’
‘Bacchus Delight,’ said Doucette, ‘is a baked custard made with half a litre or so of Sauternes, six egg yolks, four ounces of sugar and a touch of cinnamon.’
‘But made with love,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That is the most important ingredient, Couscous.’
He gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘It is good to be home. White asparagus from the Landes with sauce mousseline – one of my favourites; sole, pan-fried in butter, seasoned with parsley and lemon and served with tiny new potatoes; and now Bacchus Delight … what more could any man wish for? Simple dishes, all of them, but as I have so often said in the past, anyone can follow a recipe. It takes love and understanding to bring a meal to full fruition. It is what is known as “the passion”.’
‘If you and Pommes Frites are planning to be around for two whole months, don’t expect to eat like this every day of the week,’ said Doucette, as she bustled around clearing the table. ‘Besides, there are all sorts of things that need attending to. The window boxes could do with a thorough going over for a start. I will make a list …’
‘First things first,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse hurriedly. ‘It is a matter of priorities.’
‘In that case,’ said Doucette, ‘I suggest you start by telling me exactly what Monsieur Leclercq has in mind.’
‘Ah!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. ‘Now that, Couscous, is going to take time. Time, and a measure of understanding. Perhaps, as an aid to digesting it all, before I begin we should open another bottle of Meursault? It involves my writing a play.’
Pommes Frites looked from one to the other before settling down in a corner of the room. A good deal of the conversation that day had gone over his head, but he knew the signs. Weighing up the pros and cons and coming down heavily on the side of the cons, it seemed to him his master might well be in need of support before the night was out.
CHAPTER TWO
The project began slowly at first. The first three days were a total blank. On day four, fed up with staring fruitlessly into space and in need of fresh air, Monsieur Pamplemousse sought inspiration from the statue of Marcel Aymé, the top half of which protruded from the brickwork outside their apartment block in Montmartre.
But the late author of The Man Who Walked Through Walls – the story of a humble bank clerk whose exploits had the police at their wits’ end, remained singularly unmoved, as well he might. Incarcerated for posterity by his own creation, he clearly had enough problems of his own.
There were times when Monsieur Pamplemousse wished he’d never agreed to take on the task; days which felt as though they would never end, and when he did finally put his laptop to bed, he found himself lying awake in a cold sweat, convinced he would never make the deadline.
He knew he wasn’t easy to live with. Conversation at the table was minimal and even Pommes Frites took to giving him funny looks when they were out for a walk. In short, communication with those around him was at a low ebb.
Then one morning, aided and abetted by his subconscious, the muse struck and he woke with the germ of an idea in the back of his mind. Hadn’t it often been like that in the old days when he was a police officer? Just when things were at their blackest, a glimmer of light appeared at the end of the tunnel.
Almost imperceptibly, things began to pick
up. At first he was hardly aware of it, but gradually one day merged with another, the days became weeks, and the weeks turned first of all into a month, then two.
Eventually, one day in early July, he was able to sit back and relax.
‘Fini!’ he announced. ‘Mission accomplished!’
It had been a close call and no mistake. Pommes Frites, without knowing quite why, wagged his tail. Doucette fetched a bottle of champagne.
‘Thank goodness for that!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you. I really didn’t.’
‘I don’t any more, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have let it all out.’
It was true. He felt drained.
‘At least we have had you at home for a while,’ said Doucette. ‘But really, Aristide, I don’t know what the Director would do without you.’
‘I don’t know what we would do without Monsieur Leclercq,’ countered Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I must call him straight away and give him the good news. There is still a lot to be done and not much time left.’
And now, two weeks later, here he was, in the grounds of the Leclercqs’ summer residence in Normandy, about to face his biggest test of all.
For a moment his misgivings returned. Had he overstretched – not just himself, but the others too, most of all Monsieur Leclercq, who would be bearing the brunt?
Par exemple, would there be problems with the trapdoors? Given the lack of rehearsal time they could prove hazardous. Time would tell. In a couple of hours or so, for better or worse, it would all be over.
In an effort to take his mind off a feeling of impending doom in the pit of his stomach, he gazed at the scene spread out in front of him.
