by Michael Bond
Nestling in a wooded pocket of the Pays d’Auge area midway between Deauville and Pont l’Evêque, the Leclercqs’ picturesque black and white half-timbered house was reached by a long driveway that wound its way down the hillside. Apart from the occasional drone of a passing light aircraft towing a banner advertising the forthcoming start of the racing season in Deauville, it could have been in another world; a million kilometres away from civilisation.
In the months ahead, the same aircraft would doubtless pass overhead highlighting other seasonal attractions as they came and went; golf matches, international bridge tournaments, jazz concerts, and later in the year, the annual film festival. But for the time being peace reigned; the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and as a string quartet struck up a lively tune, a feeling of enchantment set in.
The Director’s party was an annual event, a champagne occasion, and one Monsieur Pamplemousse had experienced many times before, but even so, the sheer perfection of the surroundings was hard to take in at a glance. Somehow it always felt as though he had taken a step back in time to a more leisurely, more mannered age, with everyone suitably dressed for the occasion.
Reaching into a hip pocket, he withdrew his Leica C-Lux2, and was about to record the scene for posterity when he heard the sound of squealing tyres somewhere in the distance.
Hastily pressing the button, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced up and was just in time to see a car sweep through the wrought-iron entrance gates. Clearly the driver was in a hurry.
Weaving its way past weeping willows and beech trees, and around the freshly tonsured lawns before skirting a Norman dovecote, it followed the path of a stream that eventually cascaded into a pond the size of a small lake. Even the ducks had a superior look on their faces as they floated gently to and fro with never a feather out of place.
As the car finally disappeared from view behind a group of red rose bushes near the house – Danse du Feu, if he remembered correctly, and in full bloom for the occasion; the head gardener’s life would not have been worth living had they not been – Monsieur Pamplemousse came back down to earth.
It was hard not to feel envious of it all, yet at the same time easy to understand why Monsieur and Madame Leclercq always referred to the estate rather dismissively as their ‘summer hideaway’. Doucette had put her finger on it, as usual. During the long winter months, deprived of guests, it would be a very different kettle of fish. The Leclercqs’ only neighbours would be the inhabitants of the nearest village, and most of those probably kept themselves strictly to themselves behind shuttered windows.
Popular with tourists during the holiday season, seeking out the fourteenth-century church with its stained-glass windows and collection of Jean Restout paintings, there wouldn’t be a single stranger to be seen in the village from October onwards.
He wondered if that was why Monsieur Leclercq was said to have contributed heavily towards converting the church hall into a small theatre.
Loudier, doyen of the inspectors, had a theory that Monsieur Leclercq’s sights were fixed on becoming the local mayor, but since aspirations on that score already lay nearer his main home outside Paris, that seemed unlikely. Unless, of course, as Guilot suspected, he was hedging his bets and had bigger things in mind. Over half the membership of the National Assembly was made up of those holding the twin title of mayor. Acting as a springboard for higher office, it had certainly been the chosen route for many of France’s presidents, including Mitterand, Chirac and, more recently, Nicolas Sarkozy.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wouldn’t put it past the Director. To be a candidate for such high office needed the approval of 500 mayors, but with almost 40,000 in the whole country it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility to drum up sufficient support.
Once again, time would tell. For the time being, such matters must be far from Monsieur Leclercq’s mind as the vast patio of his country estate echoed to the buzz of conversation, interspersed at regular intervals by bursts of laughter.
Ever the perfect host, the Director was in his element overseeing the barbecue. From where he was standing, Monsieur Pamplemousse could see his white chef’s hat bobbing up and down as he made sure the needs of his guests were attended to.
He was assisted in the task by a bevy of apple-cheeked girls in traditional costume. They looked as though they might have been hand-picked from Central Casting, and in truth many of them probably had been; the Director was a stickler for detail.
If past occasions were anything to go by, the barbecue itself would be fuelled by a selection of dried wood chippings from trees on his estate; chestnut for the entrecôte steak, its flavour enhanced by virtue of having first been marinated in olive oil and then wrapped in a caul. Chicken and lamb, on the other hand, would be brought to the peak of perfection by heat from smouldering branches of apple, peach and juniper.
Pork would have been marinated overnight in local cider and lemon, whilst smoke-producing herbs – rosemary, sage and thyme – would add their mite to the scent that filled the air.
To cater for everyone’s taste, there would be stuffed vine leaves, oysters cooked in their shells, grilled lobsters, cheese on toasted bread and quiche Lorraine; not to mention both white and black boudin, and a variety of other sausages galore.
As for cold collations, if tables could be said to literally groan under excess weight, the air would have been filled with strange woodland oaths.
And for those who still had any room left for dessert, there was a separate area catering for their needs.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wished he could have joined in the festivities, but he felt too keyed up. He glanced at his watch. The Director was clearly in his element and it was to be hoped he was keeping a note of the time. It would never do for him to be late.
To one side of the main party, he spotted Madame Leclercq deep in conversation with a familiarly rotund figure, that of the surprise guest of honour, Jay Corby, the renowned and much-feared American gourmet, and focal point of today’s exercise.
He was drinking something dark out of a large glass.
The scourge of eating establishments everywhere, restaurateurs went pale when they saw his name on the guest list. He was said to wield as much influence in the sphere of food as Robert Parker did in the world of wine. Not exactly given to hiding his light under a bushel, his reputation arrived before him wherever he went. A bad review could mean empty seats and a slow death to anyone who happened to cross his path.
His two books, Fishy Business and its companion volume Done to a Turn, had been bestsellers – the first warning readers to avoid so-called ‘sea-fresh fish’ when eating out on a Monday, since most of it had probably been delivered the week before and wouldn’t be more than ‘fridge-fresh’ at best; the latter warning against ordering a steak ‘well done’, for it gave restaurants a heaven-sent opportunity to use the odd discarded cuts that would have shown up all the blemishes had they been served rare.
Both books had been on the New York Times bestseller list for months on end. As a result, readers of his widely syndicated columns followed his words with something verging on baited breath.
Inviting him to the annual party was a masterstroke on the Director’s part. One mention in Jay Corby’s column extolling the virtues of Le Guide would be worth its weight in gold; the equivalent of several kilometres of column space in other publications.
That in itself made it all the more important for everything to go well today.
To have captured Corby for a return visit was a feather in Monsieur Leclercq’s hat, particularly as it wasn’t so long ago that the food writer had attended Le Guide’s memorable in-house event, when Pommes Frites pitted his taste buds against an array of imported hounds and, fortunately for all concerned, emerged with flying colours.
On that occasion Corby had merely been passing through Paris. He was known to be a lone wolf, rarely mixing with other food critics, but even so he had been surprisingly reticent. At one point during the contest he had
sounded off in praise of American beef, as opposed to that from anywhere else in the world, but otherwise he had kept a low profile.
And now here he was again. This time flown over especially from the United States with all expenses paid.
It was a classic chicken and egg situation; if he had turned the offer down at the last minute, a couple of months’ work would have gone to waste. The Director must have made Corby a sizeable offer at an early stage in the proceedings.
Had Monsieur Pamplemousse known whom the guest of honour was going to be, he might have toned his work down a little, but it was too late to worry about that now. The die was cast. He took refuge in the old adage that people seldom saw themselves as others did.
He wondered if Pommes Frites had registered the American’s presence at the tasting. Preoccupied as he had been at the time, probably not; although he didn’t miss much, and never forgot a face.
Come to that, he wondered where his friend and mentor had got to; he had hardly set eyes on him, or Doucette, since their arrival earlier in the day.
The question fathered the answer. At that precise moment, from his vantage point on a small hillock away from the main crowd, he caught sight of a familiar figure heading towards the house. Doubtless, Pommes Frites had also caught sight of the new arrival, and being of an enquiring disposition, was on his way to investigate the matter.
Monsieur Pamplemousse knew the signs. Pausing to leave his mark, Pommes Frites was about to take advantage of the moment to sniff the air and view the passing scene, when his ears suddenly assumed an upright position. Proceeding as though on tiptoe, he edged towards a small door let into the side of an extension to the main house and, having pushed it open with his nose, disappeared from view.
Monsieur Pamplemousse drained his glass of Chateldon water and set off in pursuit. Apart from anything else, it was high time he joined his colleagues in case they needed a last-minute pep talk.
Entering the house through the same swing door Pommes Frites had used, he made his way along a narrow corridor and through an open archway at the end. The area he found himself in must be the latest addition to the Leclercqs’ property; a changing room for those making use of a swimming pool visible through sliding windows at the far end.
Obviously the pool was not in use at the moment, for the room was littered with open suitcases. Monsieur Pamplemousse came to a sudden halt as he caught sight of a shadowy figure bent over one of them. Partially screened by the other luggage, whoever it was appeared to be totally unaware of Pommes Frites’ presence.
For the second time that afternoon, and with a speed that would have brought a nod of approval from the acknowledged master of the moment critique, the late Cartier-Bresson, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his camera.
Short of actually turning to his master and saying ‘Ssh’, Pommes Frites’ bearing said it all; not that words were needed. Any sound was effectively overridden by the noise from outside.
Having assured himself that his unspoken message had been received and understood, he eased himself forward, intent on doing what any other red-blooded animal would have done under the circumstances, except that, given his height, he was better equipped than most to carry out the operation successfully, for it gave him, so to speak, a head start.
Split-second timing was of the essence and, as Pommes Frites applied his moist nose to the end of his quarry, so Monsieur Pamplemousse pressed the button, and the automatic flash on his camera came into play.
The effect was instantaneous. There was a shriek, and the girl leapt to her feet as though she had been shot.
Clad only in a gold Patek Phillippe wristwatch, she confronted Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Pervert! What are you … some kind of fetishist?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse drew back. ‘Excusez-moi …’ he began.
‘Excusez-moi nothing! I’ve met your sort from here to you name it. I hope you’re satisfied. You want me to upgrade my butt for your benefit? Just let me know.’
As the girl drew near, Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated, partly stunned into silence by the stream of verbiage.
On the other hand, he couldn’t deny the derrière Pommes Frites had set his sights on was in a class of its own. Not since his close encounter with the chorus line at the Folies – the one that had led to his taking early retirement from the Paris Sûreté – had he felt quite so bereft of words.
He could have dwelt at length on the outstanding quality of the girl’s balcons. The roundness, the firmness, the provocative way each point de sein was pointing straight at him, or so it seemed from where he was standing. Her lips, her long black hair, her brown body … everything about her defied description.
As for her legs; from the beginning of the shapely ankles, they went up and up seemingly to eternity and beyond.
Following the direction of his gaze, the girl suddenly took him by surprise as she executed an impeccable high kick.
‘Satisfied?’ She spoke with an American accent. Wall Street English, as advertisements on the Metro would have it. ‘When you’ve finished making an inventory I’d like to carry on getting changed. If you don’t mind.’
‘You must excuse Pommes Frites,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily. ‘He was simply obeying a natural curiosity.’
The girl looked down and registered the culprit for the first time. ‘Yeah! Well, you know what they say. Curiosity killed the cat. What’s your excuse?’
‘I will make sure you have a copy of the printout,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse lamely. ‘You have a wonderful carbon-neutral footprint. It is without doubt one of the most eco-friendly I have ever seen …’
It was the best he could do on the spur of the moment, but it stopped the girl dead in her tracks. She slowly lowered her leg.
‘Nobody’s ever said anything like that to me before,’ she said simply.
It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the whites of her eyes were like snow on a mountain top. Was there no end to her virtues?
He was saved any further conjecture by an all-too-familiar booming voice. His heart sank. The Director must be taking someone on a guided tour. Worse still, it sounded as though he was heading their way.
‘Quick …’ Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed hold of the girl and propelled her towards an open door, the nearest in a row of cubicles lining the wall to his right. Pommes Frites hurried after them.
There was scarcely room for two, let alone three, and barely time to slip the bolt into place before the visitors entered the room.
‘Ah, now this would appear to have been converted into some kind of changing room.’ Monsieur Leclercq sounded taken aback. ‘I wasn’t kept informed. How very confusing … I will have my secretary diarise it for me. Please excuse me a moment while I reach her on the mobile …’
In desperation, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt for the flush. The sound of rushing water had the desired effect.
‘Ah!’ The Director hastily changed his tune. ‘On second thoughts, I suggest we go back the way we came.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t catch what was said in reply, but the person also spoke with an American accent.
‘Jay,’ hissed the girl into his ear as the voices died away.
‘You know him?’
She stared at him. ‘Know him? That’s a laugh!’
Acting on an impulse as they emerged from the cubicle, she planted a long, lingering kiss firmly on his lips. It was a stomach-churning experience, as disturbing in its way as the minimalist perfume he had encountered during their time in the closet.
Letting go of Monsieur Pamplemousse, she turned and, while remaining remarkably unfazed by her state of déshabille, began searching through her travelling case, closely watched by Pommes Frites, who was clearly bowled over by the experience.
Having found what she had been looking for, she handed it to him.
‘A small present for your master to remember me by,’ she said. ‘And don’t forget … If anyone asks, you haven’t seen a thi
ng.’
Wearing his ‘dog of the world’ expression, Pommes Frites looked suitably non-committal as he accepted the object and passed it to his master, who hastily thrust the object into a trouser pocket. It felt soft and filmy, but there was no point in arguing. Clearly the girl’s mind was made up.
‘We must leave you to change,’ he said.
‘’Voir,’ said the girl. ‘Tell your hound all is forgiven.’
Pommes Frites wagged his tail and followed his master through into the next room and its more familiar surroundings.
Part of a complex that had started off as a simple double garage, for a while it had served as a gymnasium, after which it had grown over the years until it was almost another house. Now, for the time being, it was serving as an assembly point for Monsieur Pamplemousse’s colleagues.
Any worries he might have had about the encounter in the other room having been overheard vanished. Everyone was much too busy with their own problems … changing into their costumes, rehearsing lines.
Loudier was in the middle of telling a long story about an American, an Englishman, a German, and a Frenchman who were shipwrecked on a desert island. The Frenchman was the only one who survived to tell the tale, but he did say the sauce had been excellent.
That, too, was an annual event, that year by year grew longer with the telling, but the others laughed dutifully. Loudier was nearing retirement. They would miss him when he was gone.
‘We were beginning to think you had deserted us in our hour of need,’ said Truffert, buttoning up his waiter’s uniform.
‘I have done all I can,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The rest is up to all of you, I’m afraid. It is not my fault we were unable to have a dress rehearsal in situ. Monsieur Leclercq did his best, but the set builders were working until late last night. Apparently there were problems with the lighting system – the riggers threatened to go on strike because of the heat … Would you believe they cited global warming?’
