by Michael Bond
‘But surely, Monsieur, it is not the end of the world. By the law of averages such things must happen in a spa from time to time. It is unfortunate he was one of our party, but I fail to see how it could reflect badly on us. There is nothing sinister about it. People die every day.’
‘Be that as it may, Pamplemousse, it is the kind of thing a reporter might make capital of, particularly if jogged into action by one of our rivals. That is why I am saying we must exercise extreme caution. I am relying on you to keep a watchful eye on things at your end to make sure they don’t get out of hand.
‘The fact of the matter is we have an ongoing situation with Mrs Van Dorman. It is a meaningful relationship, and one which I hope will enable us to maximise our potential in the years to come …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse listened to his chief with only half an ear. The Director was wearing his new hat again – the one he had brought back from Bloomingdales on Lexington Avenue. Cupping the receiver between his head and his shoulder, Monsieur Pamplemousse idly opened the case Mrs Van Dorman had given him and removed the drinking glass. His first reaction was that it was almost identical to his own. They probably all came like it. He had used the one the Director had given him for a glass of water when he went to bed. Picking it up he compared the two. They both had the same gradations on the side – from 0 to 150. He raised the second glass up to the light. It was clean apart from some kind of clear deposit round the inside near the bottom. He held it to his nose. He could still detect the characteristic volcanic sulphury smell of the waters; that, and potassium nitrate, but underlying it there was something else again which he couldn’t quite place.
Seeing Pommes Frites watching his every movement he held it out for him to examine. Using his large ears as a shield, Pommes Frites applied the smell receptors at the tip of his nose to the opening, sniffed deeply, then committed the result to that section of his olfactory system which contained his comparison charts. After a moment’s hesitation while wheels turned and mental card indexes were consulted in order to form an evaluation, his face took on a thoughtful expression.
‘Are you there?’ A petulant voice in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s left ear brought him back to earth.
‘Oui, Monsieur.’
‘I was saying, it is too late now to go back on our undertaking to Mrs Van Dorman – the die is cast – but it is not a good start. I suggest you play down our involvement. Above all, Pamplemousse, keep a low profile; merge into the background as much as you can.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse contemplated the end of the telephone receiver for a moment or two while he counted up to dix. It was sometimes hard to come to terms with the Director’s conflicting demands. On the one hand the constant desire for publicity, on the other a fear of it back-firing.
‘With respect, Monsieur, it will be a little difficult to merge into the background if I am to attend tonight’s banquet dressed as a character from Les Trois Mousquetaires.’
‘Pamplemousse, whenever you begin a sentence using the phrase “with respect”, I know full well you are about to be difficult. All I ask is that you behave as d’Artagnan would have done. No more, no less. If I remember correctly, he was constantly merging. What was the phrase? “They seek him here, they seek him there” …’
‘I think Monsieur is mixing him up with the Scarlet Pimpernel. In any case he had the advantage of being dressed as others were at that period in time. I shall not be. Also, he did not have to drive through Vichy in a deux chevaux.’
‘Then don’t do it, Pamplemousse. Go by some other means.’
‘Very good, Monsieur. I will hire a taxi. I am sure that in the circumstances Madame Grante will agree to the added expense. Or perhaps if it is a fine evening I might even arrange to have the horse delivered to my hotel instead of having it wait for me at the Villa André. No doubt the town will be full of others doing the same thing.’
There was a pause and when the Director spoke again it was in tones of resignation.
‘Aristide, I am not a superstitious person, but I have to tell you the air in Paris is rife with ill omens. Last night I was kept awake for several hours by the sound of a screeching barn owl outside my window. As if that wasn’t bad enough, this morning as I was about to enter the office building I walked under a ladder. Naturally I immediately retraced my steps in order to spit through its rungs three times, and in so doing I inadvertently stepped in a large pot of paint.’
The Director paused. ‘I will leave you to guess what happened next.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. It was hardly possible there could be more, but luckily the Director didn’t expect an answer.
‘When I carried out my intention of spitting through the rungs in order to counteract the ill luck brought on by walking under the ladder in the first place, my salive landed on a black cat which happened to be passing behind it at the time. Furthermore, Aristide, the animal was crossing my path in the worst possible direction – from left to right. It was not amused.
‘One might argue that if a chat, whatever its colour, chooses to walk under a ladder, then it, too, is tempting fate and must expect to suffer the consequences. However, I cannot help thinking that someone, somewhere is trying to tell me something. That is all.’ There was a click and the line went dead.
Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced his own receiver. He could see now why the Director wasn’t bubbling over with happiness. Crossing to the balcony, he looked out across the red-tiled rooftops of the town while he adjusted his tie. The background mist had lifted and he could now see the countryside clearly. Below him the park was suddenly full of people; blue and white parasols adorned the tables. The sweepers had finished their work and were in consultation with each other over what to do next.
It would be very easy to laugh off the Director’s fears, but on the other hand he had to admit the whole thing was really rather odd.
For a start it was strange that Norm Ellis should have nothing on him in the way of identification. In his own experience almost everyone – unless they happened to be completely down and out – carried something about their person; a diary, a wallet containing odd items, credit cards. He could hardly have been robbed. By the sound of it there had been too many people around. Perhaps, for some reason best known to himself, Norm hadn’t wanted to be identified. But if not, why not? He wished now he’d thought to ask Mrs Van Dorman if any of those things had been found in his hotel.
Monsieur Pamplemousse went back into his room and picked up the tumblers again, holding them up to the light and comparing the two. Apart from the slight roughness which he’d noticed earlier in the bottom of the one used by Norm Ellis, they both looked identical. Someone, somewhere, must turn them out in their thousands. Wetting his index finger, he reached down inside the second glass and just managed to press it against the deposit. It felt slightly sticky to the touch.
Resisting the temptation to taste it, Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated for a moment, then picked up the phone and dialled the code for an outside line, followed by his office number.
‘Operations?
‘Pamplemousse here.
‘Oh, ça va, ça va. Tell me, do you have Glandier’s number?
‘Merci. Au revoir.’
Glandier was roughing it in Reims. No doubt preparing himself for a visit to Boyer to check on its three Stock Pots.
Dialling the number he had been given, Monsieur Pamplemousse struck lucky. Glandier was about to set off on his travels.
‘How are things in Vichy?’
‘Oh, ça va, ça va. Tell me about trick glasses; the sort magicians use.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Can anyone buy them?’
‘It depends how sophisticated you want them to be. If you mean the drinking beer out of a tankard type – the sort where a small amount of liquid is contained inside a double skin between the inner and the outer glass – you can buy those in any good magic shop, or even in one of those joke shops. You know – the kind of place
that sells “whoopee cushions” or plastic dog’s merde, blood capsules – that kind of thing.’
‘How about a tasting glass? The sort they would have at a spa?’
‘A tasting glass?’ Glandier pondered the question for a moment. ‘I haven’t ever come across one. You can get wine glasses. You’ve probably seen them. They look as though they’re full of wine, but when you hold them upside down nothing comes out. You would need to go to someone who specialises … I could give you the name of a firm in Paris. In New York there’s a shop on West 34th Street called “The Magic Center”. I’ve sent away there for things myself from time to time. That sort of place is usually run by an ex-pro., so if you want something really special they always know people who will make it for you – at a price.’
‘How about other kinds of tricks?’ He tried a long shot. ‘Water into wine for example.’
‘That’s usually a case of the quickness of the hand deceiving the eye. Plus a few chemicals. Take a jug of water mixed with ten per cent sulphuric acid, pour it into a glass containing a pinch of potassium permanganate and hey presto! you have a glass of red wine. Only get rid of it quickly before anyone has a chance to sample the result.
‘Hey! Don’t tell me you’re taking up conjuring too?’
Avoiding the question, Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked Glandier and hung up. He sensed the other’s interest being roused. Another moment and he would be offering advice on how to saw Mrs Van Dorman in two.
As he replaced the receiver Pommes Frites stood up, wagging his tail. Monsieur Pamplemousse took the hint. Clearly, fifty per cent of the room’s occupants thought it was high time they went for a walk.
He wondered whether he ought to contact the police as he’d promised. But that was before he’d spoken to the Director. No doubt if he rang an ex-colleague in Paris he would be given a name, but that would mean explaining why he was there and even if they were being ‘leant on’ from on high by a Deputy, the chances were that someone might pass on the news if only out of pique.
The phone rang. It was Mrs Van Dorman.
‘I’ve been thinking. There’s no reason on earth why you should be saddled with my problems. If you like to drop Norm’s glass back I’ll take it into the police on my way to the Villa André.’
‘It is no trouble …’
‘No, really. It’ll be a good test of my French. Besides, they’re bound to ask questions you may not be able to answer. I’m about to have a bath but the maid is doing the room so you can leave it with her.’
Feeling somewhat deflated, Monsieur Pamplemousse sat on the edge of his bed for a moment or two lost in thought. Then, acting on an impulse he would have been hard put to explain, let alone justify, he swopped the two glasses over. If anyone queried it he could always plead a mistake on his part. Whether or not he would be believed was immaterial.
The room maid was busy with a feather duster. He watched while she put the case on Mrs Van Dorman’s dressing table. The sound of running water came from the bathroom.
‘My room is free if you wish to clean it.’ He pre-empted the question he knew she was about to ask.
Strolling through the old town, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to get himself in the mood for the evening’s event, picturing what it must have been like in Dumas’ time. The whole history of the writing of Les Trois Mousquetaires: the fact that the characters of Athos, Porthos and Aramis – even that of d’Artagnan – were based on real people, made fascinating reading. Dumas had certainly done well out of it, as he had from The Count of Monte Cristo. Long queues had formed in Paris whenever a new episode was due, and outside the capital crowds gathered to greet the arrival of the stage coach carrying copies of those journaux serialising the story.
By the time Dumas arrived in Vichy to begin work on yet another sequel his fame as a gourmand and bon viveur, as well as a womaniser, must have gone before him. At the height of his success, with over 400 literary works to his credit, he had built a mansion outside Paris – the Château Monte Cristo – to accommodate his many guests, and then he’d had to build another small house alongside – the Château d’If – as a retreat where he could escape from it all in order to work! The penalties of fame!
Having explored the town to his satisfaction, Monsieur Pamplemousse took a short cut down the rue du Docteur Fouet (Superintendent des Eaux Minérales de Vichy – 1646–1715) – an achievement commemorated some three centuries later by Pommes Frites who paused at the corner to leave his mark, and together they made their way towards the Villa André.
Nothing in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s musings had prepared him for what he found. After the sunshine the house felt darker than it probably was, but clearly, he was witnessing a no-expense-spared operation. The Villa André, which by all accounts had remained empty for some years, had undergone a transformation. It was hard to tell whether the heavy oak furniture had been brought in specially for the occasion or if it had been there all the time, but as he picked his way in and out of the rooms it felt like the opening night of some theatrical extravaganza. Girls were busy dusting and polishing chairs and tables which looked as though they could well have been there when Dumas was staying; others were cleaning silver.
In the kitchen someone – from the Nikon slung round his neck at the ready he guessed it must be Elliott Garner – was engaged in a technical argument with the chef-de-cuisine over the method of serving. According to Elliott the dinner had taken place on Friday 23rd June 1862, eight years before Dumas died.
The problem centred over whether the serving should be à la Française, as it would have been up until about 1860, when all the dishes were brought in and presented at table before being taken away to be carved, or à la Russe– introduced soon after that date – in which the carving was done in advance and brought in to be eaten straight away.
It was hard to tell who was winning, but Elliott Garner was obviously taking it to heart and looked as though he was ahead on points. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse as being a little late in the day.
The Rôtisseur was keeping his thoughts to himself as he tackled the daunting task of preparing the pièce de résistance – the Rôtieà l’Impératrice. If it was only half as complex as the Director had described it, he would be occupied for the whole of the morning.
Monsieur Pamplemousse drifted away to explore the rest of the house. No stone seemed to have been left unturned, no expense spared to ensure the evening’s success. In the dining-room silver candelabra graced a huge table laid for twelve. He arrived just as a waiter was about to remove one of the place settings.
One thing was for sure, if the number of glasses was anything to go by Norm Ellis would have made up for lost time in his consumption of wine. He might even have got to taste the Bâtard Montrachet he’d hankered after.
He bumped into Mrs Van Dorman in the corridor outside. She was dressed in white overalls.
‘Am I glad to see you!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked suitably gratified.
‘Do you feel like an apéritif?’
‘If an apéritif means what I think it means – an appetiser before lunch – then the answer is “no”. I’m saving myself for tonight. But I could use a drink.’ Mrs Van Dorman looked at her watch. ‘Anyway, it’s time I went back to the hotel. I have a fitting for my dress at twelve-thirty. Maybe we could have a quick one there.’
‘Since we are about to enter into the mood of d’Artagnan, why not a Pousse Rapière – a “rapier thrust”, or even a Badinquet?’
‘Tell me?’
‘The first is made from Armagnac and sparkling white wine – ideally a vin sauvage from the region of Gers, garnished with orange peel. For the second a teaspoon of Crème de Cassis is mixed in with the Armagnac and a still white champagne is used.’
The barman at the hotel professed never to have heard of either. It was said in the tone of voice implying that if he didn’t know about it then it didn’t exist. Monsieur Pamplemousse settled for two Kirs. It wasn’t worth an argument.
Once again he found himself apologising.
‘I know the type. He is like the people from Bordeaux who pretend they have never heard of Burgundy, and vice versa. The drinks I mentioned come from the Pyrénées and to him they don’t exist.’
He looked at Mrs Van Dorman as she sipped her Kir reflectively.
‘Is anything the matter? You look worried.’ It was a stupid question. She must have a lot on her mind.
‘You know it definitely is – or was – Norm. Spencer confirmed it when he got back from the morgue. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.’
‘Was there any doubt?’
‘I didn’t think so, but the others did apparently. Either that or it’s only just hit them. I was there when Spencer broke the news. You could have knocked any of them down with a feather. All except Elliott, and he was too busy arguing with the chef. Harman Lock was all for calling the whole thing off. And there’s going to be an autopsy.’
‘That is normal when someone dies away from home.’
‘All the same, I shall feel happier when tonight’s over.’ Mrs Van Dorman finished off her drink. ‘Talking of which, it’s time I got ready for my fitting.’
‘I, too, have a fitting,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily. ‘I am not looking forward to it.’
He paid the bill and having collected the keys at the desk they went up in the lift together, each lost in their own thoughts.
‘See you!’ Mrs Van Dorman paused at her door. ‘Good luck.’
‘À bientôt.’
Further along the corridor, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned a corner, unlocked his own door, and was in the act of removing his jacket when the telephone rang.
‘Aristide – can you come quickly.’ It was Mrs Van Dorman. She sounded distraught.
‘Of course. I will be right with you.’
With Pommes Frites hard on his heels Monsieur Pamplemousse retraced his steps as fast as he could go. He found Mrs Van Dorman waiting for him just inside her room. She looked flushed, as well she might.
‘Merde!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse took in the scene. It was familiar to anyone who had spent time in the police; drawers half open, clothes scattered, suitcases upended. Whoever had done it had been in a hurry.
