by Michael Bond
‘I understand, Monsieur. But thank you.’
The Director glanced uneasily at Pommes Frites. Pommes Frites had been kept busy at the reception making his paw-mark on scraps of paper with the aid of an ink pad provided by a thoughtful PRO. There were still faint marks visible on the pavement where he had been walking.
‘Can I give you both a lift to your car?’
‘We walked, Monsieur. It was a lovely morning.’
‘Walked? From Montmartre?’ The Director coupled relief with a certain awe at the thought. ‘I must say I envy your stamina, Pamplemousse.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt equally relieved as the Director climbed into his car and waved goodbye. He suddenly wanted to be alone with his thoughts.
Pommes Frites followed him across the Champs Elysées at the Rond Point. At the far end, beyond the Arc de Triomphe, clouds were beginning to roll in from the west. The sun which had been shining brightly not half an hour earlier now had a watery feel to it. Monsieur Pamplemousse gave an involuntary shiver. In less than two months’ time the gardens surrounding the fountains on either side of him would be planted out with fir trees, all sprayed a seasonal white.
He could have kicked himself. Fancy not recognising the sound of Brother Angelo’s bleeper that evening at the hospice. True, he’d had his mind on other things, but all the same …
He paused, as he always did, to admire the display in the window of the chocolatier a little way along the avenue Franklin D. Roosevelt. He would soon have to think about Christmas shopping. Doucette’s favourites were the chocolate trees. He always bought her one as a ‘surprise’, although more often than not she couldn’t bring herself to start on it until long after the holiday.
It took him exactly eighteen minutes to walk from the chocolatier to the Parc Monceau. He could have done it in fourteen, but Pommes Frites made several stops on the way.
Entering the park by the south gate, they encountered a stream of office workers heading in the opposite direction in search of lunch-time sustenance. A few of the hardier ones had already commandeered an empty bench and were tucking into sandwiches.
The joggers were out in force. Beds had been cleared of their summer plants and there were piles of newly swept leaves everywhere.
Through some gaps in the trees to his right he spotted the ubiquitous group of statuesque figures doing their Tai Chi exercises. A scattering of lovers braved the elements in sheltered nooks and corners.
Monsieur Pamplemousse picked an empty bench at a point near the centre of the park where the two main paths crossed. He settled himself down and began sorting through the contents of his bag, spreading the various items out on the bench in the hope that it might deter others from joining him. Pommes Frites stationed himself firmly at the other end of the bench, neatly obscuring a CHIENS INTERDITS sign.
All around the trees were changing colour. Behind him the carrousel was already covered for the winter, and the last few roses of summer looked as though they hadn’t long to go.
Some children went past on tricycles. They were followed by a procession of voitures d’enfant, their occupants muffled against the autumnal weather. Heavily encased arms and legs stuck out at unlikely angles. If it were true to say that anyone who sat outside the Café de la Paix would eventually end up seeing the whole world go past, it certainly felt as though an afternoon spent sitting in the Parc Monceau must afford a glimpse of most of the children in the 8th arrondissement. It was simply a question of waiting, and Monsieur Pamplemousse had time at his disposal.
The press office had certainly gone to town. The brochure was a no-expense-spared work of art. The margins were as large as the bottles of XS were small.
There was a brief history of the company, with a run-down of all their successes. Failures, of which there had probably been many, didn’t get a mention.
A rare photograph of Monsieur Parmentier headed an article on the subject of the science of perfume; mostly to do with the ingredients which had gone into the making of XS. Musk from the deer which roam the Atlas and Himalayan mountains. Ambergris from the intestines of whales. Civet from Asia, Africa and the East Indies. Cinnamon from Ceylon and Southern India for the American market. Other raw materials came from Egypt, India and Madagascar.
Von Strudel had a whole section to himself. There was a résumé of his credits over the years. It was an impressive list. Some films, like The Babylon Years, he remembered seeing as a young man; others he had to admit to never having seen, although they were still shown in art cinemas from time to time. Doubtless after the commercial appeared there would be a retrospective Strudel season at the Musée du Cinéma in the Palais de Chaillot.
He looked long and hard at the photograph of Anne-Marie, the key make-up artist. It would figure. According to the notes, she had worked on various pop videos and was credited with having suggested Brother Angelo for his role in the commercial. It must all have been planned a long time ago. Things were beginning to fit into place. Anyone wanting a change of personality would have expert advice permanently to hand.
Presumably it had been Anne-Marie who had visited the trailer that night. He wondered if she had any idea who the mysterious occupant of the bed was.
There were pen portraits of the others involved. The designer; the lighting cameraman; the sound supervisor; wardrobe; there was even a brief mention of Gilbert Beaseley.
Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes, transporting himself back in his thoughts to that first morning when he had met them all in the viewing theatre. And now Beaseley was dead. In his heart of hearts he knew he couldn’t let the matter rest there. If he hadn’t, albeit unwittingly, flushed Brother Angelo out of his hiding place Beaseley might still be alive. But was Ron Pickles capable of murder? By then he might well have been desperate enough. And had Beaseley been in the Cathédrale that morning, also hot on the trail of Brother Angelo? It would account for the telltale traces of white on his jacket. Perhaps he had left as soon as he realised Monsieur Pamplemousse was there too.
Brother Angelo must have engineered the flight to Paris with Anne-Marie long before the filming began. He would have needed someone who could transform his appearance; someone French who could cope with all the problems of getting him admitted to hospital and arranging for an ambulance to take him to Paris – no doubt there had been another suitable contribution to the hospice fund. Someone who could also arrange a place for them to go when they got there. Perhaps it was a case of being wise after the event, but thinking back there had been certain signs; something about the way they behaved together – the way Anne-Marie had removed the strand of hair from Brother Angelo’s shoulder that day; not the automatic gesture of a professional at work, but of a lover. Now that he had a name and a face it was suddenly much easier to picture it all.
As for the various acts of sabotage, they were presumably made in an effort to delay the end of the production. It probably suited his purpose to make his flight to Paris when the city was as quiet as possible. There would be fewer questions asked. Changing the names round on the trailers must have been a precaution against being invaded by prying fans: a highly necessary one as things turned out.
It was late in the afternoon when Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a tug on Pommes Frites’ leash. He let go of it immediately and Pommes Frites was away. Pricking up his ears, nose at the ready, he hastened towards a young girl with a pushchair.
Calling out in a way which he knew would have no effect whatsoever, Monsieur Pamplemousse followed on behind. As he drew near the girl he raised his hat.
‘Pardon, Mademoiselle.’
He’d been half expecting it to be the Swedish au pair, but the girl spoke with an English accent. Again that figured. Ron would feel more at home with someone from his own country.
‘Forgive me.’
‘That’s all right.’ She seemed relieved to find someone who spoke her native tongue.
Never fully at ease with very small children, Monsieur Pamplemousse bent down to tickle t
he child’s nose. It was hard to tell whether it was a boy or a girl, it was so protected against the elements.
‘Fuck off!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse jumped back as if he had been shot.
‘That’s very naughty. You know you mustn’t say that.’ The girl delivered a half-hearted smack on her charge. It had about as much chance of penetrating the thick clothing as a wet dish cloth.
‘Oh, dear. I am sorry.’ She blushed. ‘She’s a dear little thing really, but she just can’t help herself. It’s funny how children always pick up the worst. I shan’t be sorry when she’s had her operation.’
‘There is something wrong?’
‘She’s going in next week to have some sort of bleeper thing fitted.’ The girl looked round as though she was suddenly afraid of being overheard.
‘Her father suffered from exactly the same thing and he had it done. She’s lucky. Being bilingual could have been a problem, but they can programme it for more than one language now.’
‘Coprophalia,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, finding the word he had been searching for.
‘Fancy you knowing that!’ exclaimed the girl. ‘I’d never heard of it before I got this job. I’m not sure I would have taken it if I had known. On the other hand, he couldn’t be nicer and he thinks the world of his daughter. He sings to her every evening before she goes to bed.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed down at the child. Dark, innocent-looking eyes gazed up at him. Her hair was a mass of black ringlets. Angelic was the word which immediately sprang to mind. He was tempted to reach down and give her another pat, but he thought better of it.
‘Is she very like her father?’
‘Not really. He’s got fair hair. I don’t know about the eyes – he always wears dark glasses.’
‘And the mother?’
‘I haven’t met the real mother. They live apart. He never mentions her. But the woman he lives with is very nice. She used to be in films.’
‘Would I know her name?’
‘I doubt it. She was something on the technical side.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to ask more, but already he was in danger of sounding over-inquisitive.
He raised his hat again. ‘Forgive me, I am keeping you.’
‘That’s all right. We must be getting back home anyway. It was nice having someone to talk to.’
As the girl went on her way she turned to wave, then removed something from a basket at the back of the pushchair which she gave to the child. A moment later a small hand was raised. It was clutching a long, multi-coloured object which it began to wave in unison with the au pair.
Monsieur Pamplemousse stood transfixed, hardly able to believe his eyes. It was Exhibit ‘A’: the answer to all his questions.
For a split second he was tempted to run after them. Then he thought better of it.
Reaching down as though pretending to fondle Pommes Frites, he gently undid the strap on his collar, then he uttered a brief command. It was all that was needed.
Secure in the knowledge that Pommes Frites would not be back until the task of trailing his quarry to their destination had been satisfactorily completed, he returned to the bench to wait and to cogitate on what he had just seen.
‘For dîner,’ said Doucette, ‘I have some ham from the Ardennes.’
‘On the bone?’
‘Naturellement.’
‘Thickly sliced?’
‘Just as you like it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse heaved a sigh of contentment. Pommes Frites registered ten on his wagometer. It was good to be back home and in the warm.
‘With it there is purée de pommes de terre, a little salad verte and some salad de tomates. After all your gourmandising this morning, and with Pommes Frites still being off lamb, I thought you might prefer something simple.’
‘The simple things of life,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘are often the best.’
‘I have also opened that tin of olives you brought back from Les Baux. They look delicious.’
‘Monsieur Arnaud is something of a perfectionist. I am told the black ones are kept in salt for at least three months – sometimes six until he is sure they are absolutely ready. The rest – the exact combination of herbs and sunflower oil – is a secret.’
‘They look expensive,’ said Madame Pamplemousse.
‘You get what you pay for in this world, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
As Doucette left the room he crossed to the hi-fi, inserted a cassette, then picked up the day’s journal and settled down in an armchair. Pommes Frites took up his favourite position – on the rug at his master’s feet. Contentment reigned.
Perhaps that was why Brother Angelo had visited Fontvieille – not to see Daudet’s windmill at all, but to buy some olives. Olives in Fontvieille; a Chinese meal in Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer; a picnic in the Massif de La Sainte-Baume; sometimes it didn’t pay to look for too deep a meaning in things.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced up from the journal as Doucette bustled back into the room carrying the olives in an open dish. ‘I think, Couscous,’ he said, ‘we are shortly due for the Second Coming; a resurrection in the 8th arrondissement.’
‘Really, Aristide,’ said Madame Pamplemousse impatiently, ‘you do come out with the strangest things at times.’
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you when it happens.’
It wouldn’t perhaps merit a plaque, like the one in the Parc Monceau commemorating the landing of the first parachutist, but it would be a fitting end to all that had happened.
‘What is that noise?’ Madame Pamplemousse glanced towards the hifi.
Monsieur Pamplemousse held up the empty cassette case. ‘It is the best of Brother Angelo.’
‘If that’s the best of Brother Angelo I would hate to hear the worst,’ said Madame Pamplemousse. ‘I don’t know what the neighbours will think.’ She turned down the volume. ‘It doesn’t sound like you at all.’
‘I treated myself to it on the way home,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is number one on the charts. The man in the store told me a whole lot of unreleased recordings have been found. Enough to keep the market going for several years.’
‘It is a pity Brother Angelo won’t be around to enjoy the proceeds,’ said Madame Pamplemousse.
‘I am not entirely sure that is true.’
While his wife bustled around laying the table, he gave her a brief run-down on all that had happened during the day.
‘But surely Brother Angelo already has another identity?’ said Doucette in her down-to-earth fashion. ‘Until all the fuss has died down can he not simply become plain Monsieur Pickles again? He has not really committed a crime.’
‘Therein lies the problem,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I suspect that is just what he has done. He may not have meant to. It may simply have been an accident in the heat of the moment, but …’
‘You don’t mean you suspect him of being responsible for that man …’
‘Monsieur Beaseley?’
‘… Monsieur Beaseley’s death? How can you be sure?’
‘Something I saw less than an hour ago in the Parc Monceau.’
Doucette looked at him enquiringly.
‘If you really wish to know, Couscous, it was a peacock’s feather.’
‘And that is enough to prove a man guilty of murder?’
‘It could be more than enough. That will be for a jury to decide.’
Innocent or guilty? The outcome would depend on whether Brother Angelo was tried in France or in England. If it was the former he would have to prove his innocence. If it were the latter the authorities would have to prove his guilt.
‘If there is one thing certain in this world, Couscous, it is that nothing is certain.
‘I think possibly Monsieur Beaseley came upon Brother Angelo by accident. Perhaps he was hiding out up in a deserted part of the old town, waiting for nightfall. Or Beaseley may even have followed him there. There was more to him than he le
t on and he was something of a nosy parker.
‘If it was the latter, he may have confronted Brother Angelo. There was a struggle and in the course of it Beaseley fell to his death.
‘That he was carrying a peacock’s feather at the time I know, because he showed it to me before he said goodbye. It is extremely unlikely that Brother Angelo would have picked it up at the spot where Beaseley landed. The obvious alternative is that he picked it up after their argument and later gave it to his daughter.
‘Did he fall, or was he pushed? Who knows?’
‘What do you think, Aristide?’
‘I think,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘there are times when I am glad I am no longer in the Sûreté. It is for other people to reach such conclusions.’
Doucette opened the sample bottle of XS and smelled it. ‘All that fuss for a tiny bottle of perfume.’
‘The smaller the package,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘the more expensive it is. Do you like it?’
‘I am not sure it is you.’
‘I am not sure,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that it is intended to be. It is altogether too complicated for my taste.
‘I also think it is time I opened the wine and we have dîner. The ham will spoil if it is left too long.’
Pommes Frites pricked up his ears. As a ‘nose’ in his own right, he had decided views on the subject of smells. Had he been asked to venture an opinion he would have had to agree with his master; in the end the simple things in life were best.
When it came to scents, you could keep your XS. In his humble opinion there were few things to equal the aroma from a good jambon.
Had he been able to read Pommes Frites’ thoughts, Monsieur Pamplemousse might also have put forward a strong case for the bottle of Beaune Clos des Ursules he was in the act of opening. It was from Louis Jadot and the bouquet reminded him of black cherries.
It would be a good marriage, the ham and the wine; a natural combination which rendered mere words redundant, like master and hound they simply went well together.
