by Michael Bond
‘Not dreaming that the crystals in the bottom of the glass were the real thing?’ Mrs Van Dorman reached for her sun glasses. ‘And you figured that out all by yourself?’
‘Not all by myself,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse modestly. ‘I could hardly have done it without your help, DiAnn. Besides, for many years I was with the Sûreté. Figuring things out was part of my job.
‘As I said earlier, a good lawyer would argue that in stealing the glass Ellis sealed his own fate. In a sense he took his own life. The murderer would plead that he was working on a plot for a book and that in order to make sure it was feasible he had to get all the details exactly right. How was he to know someone would steal the glass? It would also have salved his own conscience to a certain extent. The question then was which of the other five was the culprit?’
‘Which is why you got me to put the cream out for the cat so that you could see who came to lick it up.’
‘That is so. For a while, given his penchant for writing gastronomic mysteries, I was convinced it would turn out to be Harvey Wentworth. As it happened, one of the books you brought me was by him and it had to do with a man poisoning his wife with cyanide. She took sugar in her coffee and he didn’t. He doctored one of the lumps in the sugar bowl with cyanide, so it was only a matter of time before she used it.
‘Ellis must have stolen the idea because two years later it surfaced again in a book he’d written under the name of Jed Powers – Vomit in the Vestry – a cosy little tale about a homicidal priest who dealt out punishment to his flock by tampering with the communion wafers.
‘When Harvey Wentworth appeared clutching the olive and went into his long explanation about why he was giving it to me I was sure I had it right. My guess was that he’d taken fright after hearing that I was actively working on the case and wanted to get rid of me. Then I saw the look on his face as I keeled over and I knew I was wrong.
‘What I hadn’t bargained for was the cat sending someone else to lick up the cream for him. It was most unfeline behaviour. Perhaps the murderer felt that Wentworth was the only one who might put two and two together and he had in mind killing two birds with one stone. If Harvey Wentworth got himself arrested for my death there’s no way he would have got out of it.’
‘To think I bumped into Harvey in the corridor as he was leaving,’ said Mrs Dorman. ‘He must have gone straight back to whoever gave him the olive.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘D’accord.’
‘And Pommes Frites followed him.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded again. ‘Other than Harvey Wentworth, Pommes Frites is probably the only one in the world who knows for certain who the murderer is, and there is no way he can tell us.’
He glanced down at Pommes Frites, but Pommes Frites clearly had his mind on other things. He was gazing up at Mrs Van Dorman with a faraway look in his eyes. Perhaps he, too, had fallen under her spell.
‘So what’s your guess?’
‘It isn’t so much a guess,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘as an accumulation of arrows, each one pointing in the same direction.
‘As I lay on the floor of your room my mind went back to something which had been bothering me ever since I arrived in Vichy. It wasn’t until I looked at your map that it began to come clear, and even then it took me a while to grasp the full significance.
‘In France, we have a predilection for naming our streets after famous people. In Vichy, for example, your town map lists no less than three hundred and sixty different names. There are four streets called after American Presidents. There is a square Georges Pompidou, a place General de Gaulle, and a rue Napoleon III. There are some streets named after saints, and others after generals, doctors and scientists, from Saint-Barbe to Foch; from Colas to Pasteur. There is even a street named after a seventeenth-century Superintendent of Waters, a certain Docteur Fouet; a worthy man I am sure, and fully deserving of having his name recorded for posterity, but there is no mention whatsoever of a rue Alexandre Dumas. I asked myself why? If you have achieved fame as a writer in France and have a connection with a place, however tenuous – you need only have stayed there for a night en route to somewhere else – you are assured of a place at the very least. Over the years Voltaire has been honoured by the authorities in Vichy, as have Romains and Victor Hugo, but there is no mention whatsoever of Dumas. I cannot think that if he had stayed at the Villa André in order to begin work on a new novel the occasion would have passed unremarked.
‘The truth is that the whole episode was a fabrication from start to finish. According to the encyclopaedias Dumas certainly wrote two sequels to The Three Musketeers – Vingt ans après and Le Vicomte de Bragelonne – but I can find no mention of him embarking on a fourth book. I telephoned the library and they had no knowledge of it either, and they should know if anyone does.
‘The question I then asked myself was did Elliott dream up the story or was he himself the victim of a hoax? If he concocted the whole thing, then given his pedantic approach and ingrained perfectionism, he must have glossed over the truth for a very good reason.
‘Should the matter come to court, and were I appearing for the prosecution, that is an area I would concentrate on. I would put it to him that someone wanted Ellis in Vichy for a very good reason.’
‘He certainly did a very good job,’ said Mrs Van Dorman. ‘He had me fooled.’
‘He had everybody fooled. On the other hand, there was no reason why anyone should check up his story. It sounded perfectly authentic, and it would have required a more than averagely erudite Dumas scholar to say otherwise.’
‘Where would he have got the cyanide?’
‘It is not that difficult. Cyanide turns up in all sorts of different guises. Anyone involved in chemicals can probably get hold of it. As someone once involved in the perfume industry, you should know that. Besides, cyanogenic glucosides are found in lots of natural products – kernels of bitter almonds, apricots, peaches, plums … apple seeds. A cupful of apple seeds is known to have been fatal. The leaves from the wild black cherry tree contain amygalin which the stomach converts into hydrogen cyanide. It is used in the manufacture of plastics and as an intensifier in photographic processing. Elliott is a keen photographer.
‘If you simply swallow the crystals there is time for treatment. But given the right combination and mixed with water to form prussic acid, a gas is given off and death can take place in a matter of seconds. The one thing which is always present is a smell of almonds, although interestingly a good twenty per cent of people can’t detect it.
‘By the time we had our dinner Elliott must have had an inkling that I was more than a little interested in Ellis’s death. I can only think he must have been trying to throw me off the scent by doctoring the wine with something like almond, suggesting that someone else was trying to poison him. Somehow or other his glass got mixed up with yours.’
‘So Pommes Frites’ sense of smell wasn’t at fault after all?’
‘I ought never to have doubted it. As you may remember, he treated the episode of the spilt wine with the contempt it deserved.’
As though to prove his point, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the remains of the ham in his fingers and held it under the table. He felt Pommes Frites sniffing it carefully. Then, a moment later, the inspection complete, it disappeared.
‘So … what are you going to do about it?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a shrug. ‘I am a food inspector, not a judge. I comment on the world as I find it – not as I would wish it to be. I shall make out a report and pass it on to the proper authorities – in my position it would be hard to do otherwise, my conscience wouldn’t allow it and I have my sleep to think of. After that it will be up to others.’
‘What do you think will happen?’ persisted Mrs Van Dorman.
Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated his previous ‘who knows?’ gesture. From the ease with which they had left the hotel that morning he suspected that wheels were already beginning to
turn.
‘I see endless complications … or none at all. The party has already left for America. The authorities will have a field day making up their minds. It will be a matter of looking up the rules …’
‘Rules?’ repeated Mrs Van Dorman. ‘Here we are in a country where people happily park on pedestrian crossings or come at you with murder in their eyes if you dare to use one in order to cross the road, and you talk about “rules”.’
‘That is not the point,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In truth, France is a country which is steeped in rules. There are rules laid down for everything. Some rules are meant to be obeyed, others are not. The important thing is that when it comes to a disagreement they are there to be referred to. If there is an argument in a taxi about whether or not the window should be open, the passenger has the final say. That is the rule. By the same token, if there is an argument between two passengers on an autobus over the same matter, the final arbiter is the driver. That, also, is a rule.
‘There is only one area I can think of at this moment which is not governed by rules.’
‘And that is?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the menu. ‘Whether to have the tarte aux fraises or the tarte au fromage blanc. I noticed them both as we came in. The strawberries looked mouth-wateringly fresh – they must be the first of the season. The tarte au fromage is a speciality of the region. The Auvergne is known as “the cheese table” of France.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs Van Dorman, ‘we could have one of each and make our own rules as we go along.’
They drank their coffee slowly, savouring each remaining moment.
‘All good things come to an end sooner or later,’ said Mrs Van Dorman. ‘I feel as though I could stay here for ever.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You would miss New York with its skyscrapers and its way of life, just as I would now miss Paris. Even though there are times when I want to escape, I am always happy to be back there.’
He called for the bill. ‘It is my turn this time.’
‘If you ever come to New York,’ said Mrs Van Dorman, ‘I’ll take you to the Deli on West 57th. That’s something else again. I’ll buy you a bagel with cream cheese and lox, or maybe Lukshen Kugel with apple sauce and a potato pancake on the side. Apple strudel and coffee to follow.’
‘And when you are next in Paris,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I will take you to La Coupole for oysters followed by choucroute. That, too, is something else again.’ He could have listed a hundred other places he would have liked to take her to.
They drove back to Vichy in silence. It was hard to tell what Mrs Van Dorman was thinking behind her sunglasses. Even Pommes Frites was looking unusually thoughtful.
When they reached the hotel a car was waiting to take Mrs Van Dorman on to the airport. Her baggage was already loaded.
She put her hand on his shoulder as they said goodbye. ‘I wish you could come as far as Paris – you could wave me goodbye at the airport.’
‘I wish I could. But, it is not possible. I have my car.’
‘You could leave it. It’ll still be here tomorrow.’
‘There is also Pommes Frites. He will be lonely without me.’
Mrs Van Dorman gave a mock sigh. ‘Excuses.’
‘Raisons,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Aristide! Entrez! Entrez!’ The Director looked to be in an expansive mood as he rose from behind his desk. ‘And Pommes Frites. It is good to see you both.
‘You have arrived at an opportune moment. The photographs have just come in. A successful operation, by all accounts. It is unfortunate that the pictures taken of you on the cheval haven’t come out.’ He held a strip of negative up to the light. ‘It is hard to tell what went wrong. Everything seems blurred. I suspect you must have moved at the crucial moment.’
‘I will have a word with Trigaux in the art department, Monsieur. He may be able to do something.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t add that there was a little private matter he wanted to see Trigaux about too; a matter of some prints of his photographs of Mrs Van Dorman. They should be nearly ready.
The Director crossed to his drinks cabinet. ‘I have been going through your report, Aristide. It came through on the fax early this morning. You have done well. A victory over the forces of adversity. It deserves another bottle of Gosset I think.
‘I particularly liked the way you ran the flag up the pole, so to speak, and then waited to see who saluted it.’
In acknowledging the compliment Monsieur Pamplemousse also privately had to admit defeat over another matter. When it came to American phraseology, the Director was a clear winner. He also wondered if in watering down his report he’d omitted some essential detail, so that it no longer made sense. In the end he had left out more than he had put in. But the Director was much more interested in peripherals.
‘Tell me again about Ellis’s last words,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to get the story wrong when I repeat it, and it is too good not to repeat.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse obliged. Doubtless his chief would be dining out on it many times in the months to come.
‘I am reminded’, said the Director when Monsieur Pamplemousse had finished, ‘of a story my father used to tell me. It is an English joke from the First World War and therefore somewhat convoluted as English jokes often are. It also requires a knowledge of the language and of the somewhat bizarre currency system in use at the time, for it took place long before they had the good sense to become decimalised.
‘The message started off as “Send reinforcements, we are going to advance.” It was passed down the line by word of mouth and eventually, by the time it reached headquarters, it had become “Send three and fourpence, we are going to a dance.”’
Monsieur Pamplemousse laughed dutifully. His old father had told him a similar story, not once but many times.
‘Another piece of good news’, continued the Director, as he poured the champagne, ‘is that you are no longer on the “wanted” list. My very good friend, the Deputy, has stepped in. Strings have been pulled.’
‘I am delighted to hear it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. All the way up the autoroute, in between listening to a tape of Ben Webster and thinking of Mrs Van Dorman, he’d kept a wary eye on the driving mirror in case he was being followed.
‘That is what Deputies are for,’ said the Director. ‘Without Deputies to oil the machinery from time to time, life would be intolerable. France would grind to a halt.
‘Anyway, it wasn’t difficult. It seems the man at the farmhouse where you spent the night was running a brothel, catering in the main for the somewhat exotic tastes which are often prevalent in those parts of the world where the winters are long and hard and time hangs heavy. When you arrived dressed as d’Artagnan, brandishing a lady’s purse, and wearing menottes into the bargain, they not unnaturally assumed you were a new customer anxious to be chastised. It is an establishment popular with the local farming community, some of whom are sufficiently elevated they would rather their proclivities were kept under the bed as it were, instead of on top for all to see. When you failed to give the correct response to a simple code message – something to do with “wanting funny business afterwards” – panic set in. The police were contacted and their first reaction was to throw the book at you. Early reports were somewhat exaggerated. They simply wanted to frighten you enough to make quite sure you never set foot in the area again.’
‘I think it will be some while before I do, Monsieur.’
‘Good, Pamplemousse. I am glad to hear it.’ The Director raised his glass. ‘I never cease to marvel at the way nature manages to produce a constant stream of bubbles from a point source of such minuscule dimensions.
‘Tell me, Aristide, the man’s daughters, were they … how shall I put it? … were they very …?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sighed inwardly as the Director lapsed into the series of short whistles and other sound effects which he invariably bro
ught into play when he was discussing ‘delicate matters’. Clearly, he was not going to accept the plain, unvarnished truth. Embroidery was the order of the day.
‘They were not without talent, Monsieur. The eldest one sang the Marseillaise while she performed with contra-rotating tassels attached to her doudons.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ The Director gave another whistle and then reached for his handkerchief. ‘And the others?’ he asked, dabbing at his forehead.
‘The second one specialised in tricks she had obviously learned in the Casbah.
‘The third did amazing things whilst suspended by one leg from a chandelier. They catered for all tastes.’
The Director looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then he rose to his feet and began shuffling the papers around on his desk.
‘You look tired, Pamplemousse. I suggest you take the rest of the day off. Put work on the back burner for a while.’
‘I was awake for a long time last night, Monsieur. I found it hard to sleep after all the excitement.’
‘I trust you have no regrets. If you do, I would strongly advise you to go and see Matron.’
‘Regrets, Monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows. ‘I think one of my few regrets is that there will be no more Jed Powers books. Or Ed Morgan. I acquired several while I was in Vichy. They are, as they say in the blurbs, quite “unputdownable”.’
The Director accompanied him towards the door. ‘You will be pleased to know, Aristide, that I, too, have won a minor victory.
