Monsieur Pamplemousse On Location

by Michael Bond

  Monsieur Pamplemousse responded by opening the door of his trailer and standing clear.

  Pommes Frites paused for a moment on the top step, then he set off at a steady pace with Monsieur Pamplemousse hard on his heels.

  They went past each of the other trailers in turn with hardly a second’s pause. First the front row and then in and out of the ones which were scattered behind. It wasn’t until he had finished his second confirmatory tour of inspection that Pommes Frites came to a halt and sat waiting for further instructions. Monsieur Pamplemousse had to confess to a feeling of disappointment as he registered the name on the door. It was not what he had expected to see. Either Pommes Frites had done the unheard-of thing and made a mistake, or yet another of his theories had bitten the dust.

  He was about to retrieve the screwdriver when he heard his name being called and turned to see Montgomery – Von Strudel’s chef – hurrying towards him.

  ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse. Monsieur Pamplemousse, I have been looking for you everywhere. Have you not heard?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a non-committal grunt. ‘Pommes Frites and I have been away all day. Something has happened?’

  ‘Monsieur Beaseley. His body has been found at the foot of the cliff.’

  ‘The cliff? What cliff?’

  ‘The one where the old castle once stood. The highest point in Les Baux.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt slightly sick. It was the spot where the sadistic Raymond de Turenne had made after-dinner sport of watching prisoners being hurled to their death – not far from the cave where Brother Angelo had vanished. Beaseley would have fallen more than 250 metres on to the rocks below. Death would have been instantaneous, but the moments before must have seemed endless.

  ‘He has been identified?’

  ‘There is no doubt.’ Bernard hesitated. ‘We shall miss his practical jokes. His whoopee cushions, his toads in the bed …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a wry smile. ‘His exploding stoves … his sand in the camera … his savon d’agneau when they were filming the Last Supper …’

  Montgomery shook his head. ‘No, those things were not the work of Monsieur Beaseley. There was no real harm in him. He once told me he caught the habit when he worked in a joke factory. Someone else must have been responsible. Someone who wanted to delay the production.’

  He wiped his hands in a cloth. ‘I must go. Herr Strudel will be looking for me. But I thought you should know.’

  ‘Merci.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt infinitely sad. It didn’t seem possible. As always, there were so many things left unsaid; so many questions he should have asked. Now it was too late.

  At least Beaseley had lived to see his name written in large letters on the door of a Hollywood-style trailer. It was fame of a kind, the next best thing to having it up in lights. But then, so had he; so had the Director.

  Suddenly, he realised what he was thinking. He must be getting old – or tired – tired by all the driving.

  The door Pommes Frites had led him to certainly bore the Director’s name, but assuming no one had restored the sign boards to normal, the trailer was the one which had belonged to Brother Angelo.

  If Pommes Frites had got it right, then it raised all sorts of questions. Following Montgomery’s line of thought about the more bizarre acts of sabotage, why would Brother Angelo wish to delay the completion date?

  And if he was becoming more and more desperate – desperate enough to have lashed out in the Cathédrale when he thought he’d been cornered, could he – either accidentally or on purpose – have been responsible for Beaseley’s death?

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s feeling of elation was short-lived. It was all pure conjecture on his part; conjecture based on circumstantial evidence. None of it would stand up in court for a second.

  What had Beaseley’s last words to him been? ‘If a man will begin with certainties he shall end in doubt, but if he will be content to begin with doubts he shall end in certainties.’

  Doubts Monsieur Pamplemousse had plenty of, but although certainties were beginning to take shape, they were still very thin on the ground. None of them took him the slightest bit further forward in the most important factor of all: locating the missing Brother Angelo, without whom nothing could be proved anyway.

  10

  THE RESURRECTION

  It ended as it had begun, in Parc Monceau in the 8th arrondissement of Paris. Almost three months had elapsed since Monsieur Pamplemousse’s last visit. Paris was back at work, and in a way it was both a voyage of nostalgia and a treat for Pommes Frites.

  Work of a kind was the reason why Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself one autumn morning strolling in leisurely fashion down the avenue Montaigne accompanied by the Director. Each of them was carrying a black imitation-leather valise bearing the motif XS in gold letters on the side, for they had been to a private screening of the perfume commercial prior to its release.

  After the vintage Krug champagne, the speeches, the overpowering chicness of beautiful hostesses, the plethora of congratulations – everyone received their share of praise, from the head of the perfume company to the commissionaire on duty at the projection studio – it was good to be outside again breathing comparatively fresh air. Names like Dior, Vuitton and Jean-Louis Schrerrer dripped expensively off buildings on either side of the tree-lined avenue.

  ‘A triumph, would you not say, Pamplemousse?’

  ‘Immaculate, Monsieur. Miraculous in its way.’

  ‘I understand plaudits from various religious bodies around the world are arriving hourly. Doubtless you noticed there was a sprinkling of purple cassocks present this morning. It is amazing what can be achieved with judicious editing.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had to agree. The proof of the pudding was in the eating and the end result was a work of art. Tasteful. Quite surprisingly moving in places. It was hard to picture anyone taking offence. A Palme d’Or at next year’s Festival of Commercials was assured.

  Pommes Frites’ big moment came fairly early on during the flood. Seen in tight close-up, the expression on his face as he watched the Ark disappearing into the horizon drew a spontaneous round of applause. There was hardly a dry eye in the house.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself wondering what the reaction would have been had the audience witnessed the true cause of Pommes Frites’ consternation – the collapse of the papier mâché palm tree.

  ‘At least we can say we were in a film directed by Von Strudel,’ said the Director, breaking into his thoughts.

  ‘Along with Mangetout …’

  ‘… and Brother Angelo.’

  ‘You didn’t think the make-up was a little over the top?’ asked the Director anxiously.

  ‘I think it was exactly right, Monsieur. And the lighting was superb. As for the casting – it was brilliant in its way. There was a kind of spiritual quality about his performance which was quite the reverse of all one had feared. And the fact that he disappeared before the final scene didn’t matter at all. They must have amassed so much material in the earlier shots every eventuality was covered. Most of it was in close-up anyway, and the long shots were so brief you would never know it was a stand-in. Perhaps Eisenstein was right. One doesn’t need actors …’

  The Director clucked impatiently. ‘I wasn’t referring to Brother Angelo, Pamplemousse. I was thinking of my own appearance; the moment, albeit brief, when I was caught in the eye of the camera. You noted it, of course?’

  The Director was clearly excited at having seen himself preserved on celluloid. No doubt for many weeks to come there would be breaks in the conversation at dinner parties while guests were forced to watch television commercials between courses.

  ‘Although I say it myself, it is not hard to spot me.’

  Hardly surprising, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, since the Director was the only one looking towards the camera. He wasn’t actually waving, but like the classic Hitchcock shot of the man who kept staring straight ahead at Wim
bledon when all those around him were following the ball, once seen there was no taking your eyes off him. It was a wonder they had left it in. Perhaps they thought it added a touch of mystery. Speaking for himself, Monsieur Pamplemousse was glad his merging with the crowd had been rather more successful. All the same, the Director was right. They could have ended up like so many thousands of others – as out-takes on the cutting-room floor.

  ‘I once played Robespierre in a school play,’ mused the Director. ‘Did you know he invented mayonnaise?’

  ‘It was kitchen-sink drama, Monsieur?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse innocently.

  The Director glanced at him suspiciously. ‘No, it was not, Pamplemousse,’ he said gruffly. ‘It was set at the time of the revolution. I mention it in passing merely as a matter of interest.’

  They walked together in silence for a moment or two. A van bearing the letters XS on its side passed them.

  ‘That was a bad business at Les Baux after I left,’ said the Director. ‘What do you think happened to that poor fellow? Lost his footing, I suppose.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a non-committal grunt. It was a subject he still didn’t feel like discussing.

  ‘And what about Brother Angelo? They never found a body. No one ever claimed responsibility. I am glad the “Second Coming” theory was thoroughly discredited. That would not have been good news.’

  ‘It served its purpose,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Things could hardly have worked out better for the perfume company. All that free publicity for XS has acted as a teaser for the real thing.’

  The Director gave him a sideways glance. ‘Are you suggesting it was a put-up job?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘Certainly not on the part of the perfume manufacturers. Nor the film company.’

  ‘What then? If you are suggesting Brother Angelo spirited himself away, I do not see how he could have done it. The whole of the police force were looking for him at one point. The journaux …’

  ‘One knows it is not possible to make an elephant vanish into thin air, Monsieur, but magicians do it every day. In his own way, with his stage act, Ron Pickles was something of an illusionist. He knew it was all a matter of timing. That, and some kind of distraction which would cause attention to be diverted elsewhere at the moment critique.’

  ‘The turning off of the lights …’

  ‘Exactement. For a few seconds everyone was looking everywhere but at the mouth of the cave. It was all he would have needed.’

  ‘But why give up a successful career?’ said the Director.

  ‘The death – or in this case the disappearance – of an artist creates an entirely new set of values. Suddenly everybody realises the well has dried up, so the remaining water becomes more and more precious. If someone is lucky enough to find a hidden cache, their fortune is assured. Suppose one were to stumble across a collection of paintings by Monet. Or even a few sketches … a Mozart symphony …’

  ‘They are hardly in the same category, Aristide.’

  ‘Perhaps not in your eyes, Monsieur, but tastes vary. It is over twenty years since Jim Morrison died in a Paris bath from a heart attack brought on by drugs and alcohol but his tomb in the Père Lachaise cemetery is rarely without its circle of worshippers. They would give anything for some tangible reminder.’

  ‘Surely it is still preferable to be free to go anywhere one cares to choose rather than to renounce everything?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was suddenly reminded of Beaseley’s quotation.

  ‘In this world there are only two tragedies, Monsieur. One is not getting what you want. The other is getting it.’

  ‘That is a very shrewd remark, Aristide.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Monsieur, an Irish writer thought of it first – before he, too, ended up in the Père Lachaise.’

  They reached the point where the Director had parked his car.

  ‘I haven’t thanked you properly for coming to my assistance, Aristide. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

  ‘There is no need to thank me, Monsieur. I only did what I thought was right at the time. I am glad it all worked out.’

  While the Director felt for his keys, Monsieur Pamplemousse posed a question he had been dying to ask. ‘You have had no problems chez Leclercq?’

  ‘All is quiet on the distaff side,’ said the Director. ‘Ominously so, I thought for a while, but there is no knowing with women. So far I do not think Chantal has even noticed the extent of my indisposition. If she has, then she has passed no comment. She accepted my story without hesitation.’

  ‘Your story, Monsieur?’

  ‘The one about walking into a bollard. Once again, I have to thank you, Aristide. I simply transferred the location to Marseille. It struck me as being rather more believable. I’m sure it happens there all the time to drunken matelots reeling back to their vessels after dark.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself hoping the Director hadn’t embroidered his tale too much; something he was apt to do at times. He might well find himself in for a rough time at a later date when his wife discovered he had taken part in a perfume commercial. Questions were bound to be asked.

  ‘And you, Monsieur. You are feeling better?’

  ‘Much better, thank you, Aristide. As you can see, I am able to do without crutches for days at a time. Only when there is rain in the air do I feel certain twinges. I have been giving a lot of thought to the question of a transplant. Not serious consideration, you understand – who knows what problems might be unleashed? But it has kept me awake a good deal. The imagination has run riot.

  ‘One thing is very certain, Aristide. Misfortunes of any kind have a sobering effect. None more so than in the world of medicine. It is always possible to see people worse off than oneself.’

  ‘That is true of hospitals everywhere, Monsieur.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking so much of the hospital,’ said the Director. ‘Although, as you said at the time, there are a lot of unusual cases there. It is incredible the things that some people in the highest echelons get up to. I could hardly believe my eyes – or my ears.

  ‘No, I was thinking more of the poor man who shared the ambulance with me on my journey to Paris. Even now, I shudder to think what could possibly have happened to him. It made my own troubles seem minor by comparison. Swathed in bandages from head to foot like an Egyptian mummy. He didn’t utter a word all the way there. Several times I tried to engage him in conversation in the hope of lightening his burden, but he seemed not to wish to talk.

  ‘The nurse with him was equally reticent. It was strange. I could have sworn I’d seen her somewhere before. She pretended not to speak any known tongue, although she seemed to communicate very readily with the driver when we reached their destination. There was a dreadful commotion as they entered the building – something to do with getting the stretcher jammed in the lift doors. All hell broke lose. There was a crash and I heard a bleeper going as someone called for assistance. The concierge was either asleep or on holiday along with the rest of Paris. One can’t rely on anything these days.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse, who had been listening with only half an ear, suddenly stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Where did this happen, Monsieur? Here – in Paris?’

  ‘Somewhere in the 8th arrondissement.’

  ‘But you do not know exactly where?’

  ‘Pamplemousse, I was in no fit state to take note of details, nor did I greatly care where we were. It was bad enough having to make a diversion in the first place. It was somewhere near the Parc Monceau, that is all I know. I remember glancing out of the window as we drove past the old toll house at the northern entrance and thinking not much further to go. What with all that and some wretched child crying incessantly I had a most unpleasant journey.’

  ‘And you say you thought you had seen the nurse somewhere before?’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Was it in the hospice?’

  The Director shook his head. ‘
No. I have been through them all in my mind, one by one, and it was no one there. I think it must have been on the film set. She was very like one of the staff. I looked around at the showing but no one came to mind.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse fell silent for a moment. Something clicked in his mind. Reaching into his carrier bag he felt amongst folders filled with 20 cm × 25 cm glossy colour stills and several immaculately wrapped sample packs of soaps and perfume, until he came across what he was looking for. Removing an A4 size brochure, he flipped through it until he came across the picture he wanted.

  ‘Was this the person, Monsieur?’

  The Director stared at the photograph. ‘You know I believe you could be right, Pamplemousse. She looked different in her working clothes, of course. And the girl in the ambulance had blonde hair … but I remember the green eyes … they were very distinctive.’

  ‘Merci, Monsieur.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a sudden surge of excitement.

  The Director hesitated and then, realising he would get no further, abruptly changed the subject.

  ‘I hope you had a happier journey back to Paris. You followed up my suggestions?’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur. The restaurant you spoke of north of Orange was all you said it would be.’

  ‘Remember also, Aristide, that it was not the truffle season. I must arrange for you to pay another visit now that October is here.’

  ‘Merci, Monsieur.’

  ‘And the cuisine at Pic?’

  ‘As generous as ever.’

  ‘That is good to hear. How about Bocuse?’

  ‘He was there in person. He actually turned my poulet on its spit with his own hand.’

  ‘A signal honour, Pamplemousse.’

  ‘Poetry in motion, Monsieur.’

  ‘I trust he did not …’

  ‘Non, Monsieur. He did not realise I was from Le Guide. He simply happened to be going past. It was a purely reflex action.’

  ‘I shall look forward to reading your report, Aristide.’ Sensing a certain restlessness in his companion, the Director glanced at his watch. ‘How time flies. It is nearly lunchtime already. I fear I have an appointment, otherwise …’