by Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Location
Michael Bond
CONTENTS
Title Page
1 OVERTURE AND BEGINNERS
2 DINNER WITH A BANG
3 A STAR IS BORN
4 THE LAST SUPPER
5 THE CRUCIFIXION
6 THE SACRIFICE
7 IMAGES GALORE
8 PATIENT PROBLEMS
9 DID HE FALL OR WAS HE PUSHED?
10 THE RESURRECTION
About the Author
Also by Michael Bond
Copyright
1
OVERTURE AND BEGINNERS
For Monsieur Pamplemousse it began and ended in the Parc Monceau; that small but immaculately kept oasis of greenery situated in the 8th arrondissement of Paris, where uniformed nannies from well-to-do families forgather every afternoon in order to give the occupants of their voitures d’enfant an airing.
Fate had drawn him there in the first place. Fate and Pommes Frites, which more often than not amounted to much the same thing.
The day had started badly. En route to the office, he encountered a horrendous traffic jam in the Place de Clichy. An embouteillage of the very worst kind. A quick glance to his left as he joined the throng of impatient drivers revealed stationary traffic as far as the eye could see – all the way down the rue de Léningrad.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Monsieur Pamplemousse abandoned his normal route and put Plan ‘B’ into action. After mounting the central reservation for a short distance, he wormed his way with great aplomb in and out of the waiting vehicles and headed westwards along the Boulevard des Batignolles as though that had been his intention all along.
A few minutes later, soon after they reached the Boulevard Courcelles to be exact, he felt a stirring in the back seat of his 2CV as Pommes Frites came to and registered this unexpected change to the natural order of things. Having treated the shampooed and pomaded occupants of a Boutique de Chiens to his right with the contempt he clearly thought they deserved, he turned his attention to the vista on his left. As he did so the Parc Monceau loomed into view.
Resting his chin on his master’s shoulder, Pommes Frites gazed soulfully through the offside window. Anyone watching could have been forgiven for assuming the worst. A hard done-by hound if ever there was one, possibly on its way to the knacker’s yard.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at his watch. It showed a minute or so before nine o’clock. It was his first day back at work after a successful tour of duty in Arcachon. No one would expect him to arrive at the office dead on time, least of all the Director, who had good cause to be in his debt in more ways than one. Had not Monsieur Leclercq specifically said that the choice of a next assignment lay with Monsieur Pamplemousse himself? The world – at least that part of it which lay within the boundaries of metropolitan France – was virtually his oyster.
In the meantime the sighing in his ear was becoming almost intolerable. To stop or not to stop? The question resolved itself almost immediately when an empty parking space suddenly materialised ahead of them.
Entering the Parc Monceau through a pair of vast and gilded ornamental wrought-iron gates, Monsieur Pamplemousse returned the salute of an elderly gendarme who appeared from behind a large rotunda. It was nice to know there were still those in the force who recognised him from his days with the Sûreté. All the same, he was glad he had thought to put Pommes Frites on a leash; the man already had his whistle at the ready.
Monsieur Pamplemousse tightened his grip on the lead as he joined a stream of commuters heading across the park towards the Champs Elysées. There was a large sand pit in the middle of the path leading off to his right and he sensed that Pommes Frites might have designs on it; designs which would undoubtedly have been legislated against on one of the many notice boards. It looked like a ‘no go’ area in all senses of the word. That being so, he led the way along a path to their left. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the gendarme still keeping a watchful eye on them. It was a case of better safe than sorry.
In the days to come Monsieur Pamplemousse would more than once fall to wondering what might have happened had he risked the gendarme’s opprobrium and gone to his right. Would everything have been different?
As it was, he strolled on his way past large areas of begonias and between beds filled with marigolds and busy lizzies, blissfully unaware that he was setting in motion his involvement in a train of events as bizarre as any he had yet experienced.
It was a tranquil scene. Roses were in full bloom everywhere. Pigeons waddled to and fro as they foraged for unconsidered trifles; sparrows followed in their wake. Only the soft swish of water from hosepipes playing over the freshly mown grass and the occasional heavy breathing of passing joggers disturbed the peace.
Their route took them towards the naumachia basin, an artificial lake modelled, so it was said, after pools the ancient Romans were wont to construct in order to simulate mock naval battles. Ducks swam lazily back and forth, pausing every now and then in order to dip their beaks into the water. In the coming months the colonnades beyond the lake would form the background to many a fashionable wedding photograph, but for the moment it wasn’t hard to picture it peopled by toga-clad citizens of the Roman Empire, idly helping themselves from bunches of grapes as they spurred their model boats on to victory over a late breakfast.
Had Monsieur Pamplemousse taken the path to the right that morning his thoughts might well have been on madeleines rather than ancient Rome, for had he not once read that Marcel Proust used to play in the sand with his friend Antoinette Fauve? Marcel Proust, whose most memorable work was inspired by the simple act of dipping a spoonful of madeleine cake crumbs into a cup of lime tea.
And if his thoughts had been on madeleines, then it was more than likely he would have spurned the Director’s offer of a trip to the Camargue, opting instead for a chance to sample the culinary delights in and around Illiers-Combray, home territory of the illustrious writer.
Pommes Frites had no such romantic notions. As far as he was concerned water was for swimming in, ducks were meant to be eaten, and birds and joggers were there to be chased. Unable to do any of these things, he strained at his leash, anxious to explore pastures new.
Monsieur Pamplemousse knew how he felt. It was ridiculous really. It was only a matter of days since their return from Arcachon and already he, too, was feeling restless. It was hard to put a finger on the cause. Perhaps it had to with the feeling of holidays in the air. All the way along from the Place de Clichy waiters had been busy putting out extra tables and chairs ready for déjeuner, anxious to make the most of things before the annual migration out of Paris began. Men in green overalls had been busy with their brooms. Pavements glistened from being freshly machine-washed. It was rather as though everything was being spruced up and made ready for putting into store. In a few weeks time Paris, at least as far as its residents were concerned, would be empty.
Studiously averting his gaze from the shadowy figures practising Tai Chi behind some bushes, he moved on round the gardens and stood for a while contemplating the spot where, on the 22nd October 1797, a certain Monsieur Jacques Garnerin, the world’s first parachutist, had caused consternation amongst the local populace by literally falling out of the sky. It didn’t help.
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s feeling of unrest lasted all the way to the office. Driving round the Arc de Triomphe he was struck by the thought that it needed but a turn of the wheel and he could head in any direction he chose; north, south, east or west. It was that sort of morning.
But duty called. As he went round for the second time, he abandoned the carrousel and headed towards the pont de l’Alma
and the underground car park beneath the Esplanade des Invalides.
A few minutes later he turned off the rue Fabert and applied a magnetic card to a brass plate let into the wall. In response to the answering buzz he pushed open a small door marked piétons and let himself into a courtyard on the far side of which, beyond the fountain, lay Le Guide’s headquarters.
Even old Rambaud, the gatekeeper, seemed to have caught the bug. The window of his little room just inside the entrance was wide open: an unprecedented event. No doubt if he caught a cold they would all suffer the consequences.
Crossing the courtyard, Monsieur Pamplemousse entered the main building through the large plate-glass revolving doors. He exchanged greetings with the receptionist and then, ignoring the lift, bounded up the main stairs two at a time.
The Inspectors’ office on the third floor was empty. It was the time of year when most of his colleagues were scattered far and wide across the length and breadth of France, searching out new restaurants, checking on long-established ones, double-checking those earmarked for promotion, or in some cases demotion, following up unsolicited letters of praise or complaint.
Panting a little after his exertions, Monsieur Pamplemousse settled down at his desk and started to go through the contents of his In-Tray. There was the usual assortment of odds and ends. Some queries from Madame Grante about past expenses – he put those on one side to deal with later – she had yet to see the extras he had accumulated in Arcachon; they would need Monsieur le Directeur’s approval before he even dared broach the subject. Explaining how and why Pommes Frites had come to bury one of Le Guide’s issue camera lenses in the sand at Cap Ferret would not be easy: worse than filling in an accident report. Lips would be compressed. Unanswerable questions would be posed. Pleading that the lens had been in a pocket of his best suit which had also been engulfed by the incoming tide would be a waste of time.
There was a note from Trigaux in the Art Department saying a film he’d wanted processed was ready for collection. Bernard had left him a wine list containing several sale items marked with a cross. Bernard had connections in the wine trade and an eye for a bargain. Truffert had returned a tape he’d borrowed – Gerry Mulligan Meets Ben Webster.
Reaching across, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt in his tray in case he had missed anything. His fingers made contact with a small plastic envelope. A tag bearing his name was attached to the outside. Printed in red across the top were the words SECRET ET CONFIDENTIEL. Tearing open the top of the packet, he upended it over his blotting pad. Bottle was too grand a word for the object which fell out. True it was made of brown glass, but it was so small there was no room for a label, nor was there anything inside the envelope to say who had put it there in the first place or why.
He held the object up to the light, but it was impossible to see if there was any liquid inside. He decided it must contain something because it had a tiny glass stopper kept in place by a band of shrink plastic.
Taking a corkscrew from his pocket, Monsieur Pamplemousse released the knife blade and made a nick in the band. Still half-suspecting one of his colleagues might be playing a prank, he gingerly removed the stopper and applied it to the end of his nose. It was a perfume of some kind. Mildly assertive, yet with an underlying promise of other things to come; it was hard to put a word to it. Sensual? Decadent? That was it – decadent.
Analysing it as one might a glass of wine, isolating one part from another, he first of all registered musk. Beyond that he thought he could detect the smell of incense. There were spices too, spices … roses? … perhaps a damask rose? Certainly flowers of some kind. Jasmine? There was more than a hint of oakmoss. He added coriander to his list before he gave up. Doubtless there were many, many more, but it would need an expert and highly trained nose to isolate them. The overall effect wasn’t unpleasant: very much the reverse. But why he should be the recipient of such a strange gift he hadn’t the remotest idea. Perhaps someone was trying to tell him something?
He picked up the phial and dribbled the contents over the back of his other hand in the way that he’d seen women do when they were testing samples in a shop. Rather more came out than he had intended. It trickled off on to the desk and he was about to reach for his handkerchief when he thought better of it. Doucette might suspect the worst.
Catching sight of Pommes Frites stirring in his sleep, Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily crossed to the nearest window and flung it open. He had no wish for anyone to come in and catch him smelling to high heaven.
He was in the act of waving his arm to and fro when he happened to catch sight of a familiar car drawing into its official parking place to the right of the main entrance. The solitary occupant alighted and was about to slam the door shut when he glanced up as though to check the weather.
Monsieur Pamplemousse froze. It was too late to withdraw his arm, so he did the next best thing – he converted the waving motion into a form of salutation. The greeting was not returned. Instead, the driver stared up at him for several seconds, then reopened the door of his car and reached for a telephone on the centre console.
Closing the window, Monsieur Pamplemousse hurried back to his desk. He hardly had time to settle down again before the telephone rang. It was Véronique, the Director’s secretary.
‘Monsieur Pamplemousse. Monsieur Leclercq wishes to see you in his office.’
‘Now?’
‘Oui. Tout de suite.’
‘Did he sound …?’
Véronique anticipated his question. ‘Non. Au contraire. He sounded very cheerful. He simply said as soon as possible. He is on his way up now. If you hurry you may beat him to it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily replaced the stopper in the phial and parcelled it up inside an envelope. Then he opened a drawer. The mystery would have to wait.
He glanced down. Pommes Frites’ nose was twitching and there was the suspicion of a smile playing on his lips. It seemed a pity to disturb him.
Véronique made a thumbs-down gesture as Monsieur Pamplemousse entered the Director’s outer office. Behind an open door he could see her boss already seated at his desk. Clearly the race had gone to the one with the private lift.
‘Entrez, Aristide. Entrez.’ Catching sight of his subordinate, Monsieur Leclercq rose to his feet and after a brief but undeniably warm handshake motioned towards an armchair.
Monsieur Pamplemousse did as he was bidden. Véronique was right. The signs were not bad. In fact, his chief looked in an unusually sunny mood.
‘I trust you are fully recovered from your stay in Arcachon, Aristide?’ he began.
‘I think I have seen enough sand to last me for a while, Monsieur. The dunes are unbelievably large.’
The Director sniffed. ‘I take it you have been at the bottle already.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked suitably injured. ‘I assure you, Monsieur, that not a drop has passed my lips since yesterday evening.’
‘No, no, Pamplemousse, you misunderstand me. I was referring to the sample fragrance I asked Véronique to place in your tray. Tell me what you think of it. I value your opinion.’
‘It is … unusual …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. Something in the tone of the Director’s voice prompted him to leave his options open for the time being.
‘It is not one I have come across before,’ he added cautiously.
The Director closed the door to his outer office and then glanced quickly round the room to make doubly certain the rest were properly shut. ‘That, Aristide, is because it is not yet on the market. The launch date has yet to be fixed. Field trials are still in progress.
‘A “come-hither” perfume would you say? Hard to resist?’
‘I have not put it to the test, Monsieur.’
‘Madame Grante has not been chasing you down the corridors overcome by barely concealed passion?’
‘No, Monsieur. I am glad to say she has not. I came as soon as I received Véronique’s call.’
The Director looked mildly
disappointed. He gave another sniff and retreated towards the window.
While his chief’s back was turned Monsieur Pamplemousse automatically glanced at the desk to see if it offered any clues as to why he had been summoned. Somewhat to his surprise he saw there was a translation of the works of the great Roman cookery writer, Apicius, lying open. Alongside it was a paperback book. As far as he could make out from the title on the spine it was a glossary of film terms.
Rather more ominously, he also caught sight of a P27 – the standard form used by Le Guide in order to record personal details relating to members of staff. He was too far away to see whether or not his own name was at the top. The answer was not long in coming.
Having made himself comfortable, the Director picked up the form.
‘I have been going through your records, Aristide. I see you spent some time attached to the fraud squad while you were with the Sûreté.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a non-committal ‘oui’. He wondered what was coming next.
‘No doubt you learned a great deal about perfume while you were there?’
‘It was not really my area, Monsieur. I was mostly concerned with food. Food and drink. Unscrupulous fishmongers who resort to varnishing the eyes of their wares when they grow stale. As for drink, believe me, Monsieur, you will find more ways of spelling Byrrh and Pernod in the Musée de Contrefaçon than you would have thought possible. People read what they expect to read. But I know there is a section devoted to perfume; there are numerous examples of passing off – names like Chanel become Cherel, or even Chinarl. Dior-Dior turned up once as Dora-Dora. Nina Ricci, Guy Laroche, Givenchy, even Guérlain have all suffered in their time.
‘With a world-wide market for perfume worth tens of billions of francs, counterfeiting is big business these days. Perfume is the reflection of many people’s dreams. It offers the promise of excitement in their lives: a touch of wickedness. And where there are desires to be satisfied corruption is never far away.’
