by Michael Bond
Cameras belonging to a few hardy souls on the top deck flashed as it approached Auguste Bartholdi’s original model for the American Statue of Liberty, on the furthermost tip of the Allée.
One last set of steps, this time leading up to the Pont de Grenelle, and he was heading back for the Right bank. He knew he must be getting close because Véronique often spoke of the view of the statue she had from her top floor apartment on the Quai Louis Blèriot.
He wondered what it would be like. Tidy? Almost certainly, if her office was anything to go by. But would it reveal many clues to her life outside the office? Somehow, he doubted it.
For all he knew she might be married, or have a live-in lover. Perhaps even an elderly mother she was looking after. For no particular reason he could put his finger on, none of them seemed to fit the bill.
There was one sure way of finding out. Arriving outside her block a few minutes later, he programmed in the entry code, entered a small hallway, pressed another button for her apartment, and waited for a response. It came almost immediately.
One question was answered soon after the lift arrived at the top floor. Chic as ever in a beige cashmere roll-neck sweater and matching skirt, Véronique volunteered the information almost in the way of an apology as she helped him off with his coat. He couldn’t help thinking that when her parents died they must not only have left her the apartment, but the means to carry on living in a style to which she had clearly become accustomed.
‘No Pommes Frites?’ She looked disappointed.
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘He is on an important mission.’
He glanced round as she ushered him into the main living area. The furnishings were much as he had anticipated; a mixture of old and new. He guessed she must have been gradually updating it since her inheritance; quiet, good taste summed it up. Modern, but nothing too way out, and certainly little in the way of photographs or other personal items to give much of a clue as to who lived there. Perhaps such information would be found among the many books occupying shelves lining the far wall to his left.
Below the long picture window, a glass-topped table was home to an old-fashioned gilded birdcage. It looked slightly familiar, yet somehow out of keeping with the rest of the furnishings.
‘Comment allez-vous? Comment allez-vous?’ A gruff voice came from the sole occupant of the cage. Tiny tinkles from a small bell punctuated the words, at the same time ringing a much larger one in his own head.
Raising an eyebrow, he glanced back at Véronique, wondering what on earth Madame Grante’s pet budgerigar was doing in her apartment.
Jo Jo had learnt some new words since they last met. Then it had been ‘comment ça va?’, but he’d always had trouble with his cedillas. His ‘comment allez-vous?’ was infinitely more successful.
However, that was largely academic. Where, he wondered, was Jo Jo’s owner when she was at home?
CHAPTER FIVE
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s unspoken question received a swift and conclusive response from an unimpeachable source.
Ensconced in a chrome and leather armchair by the window, Le Guide’s Head of Accounts clearly enjoyed the look of surprise on his face as she swung round to face him.
‘It’s confession time,’ said Véronique. ‘But first things first …’
Motioning him towards a matching chair on the opposite end of the window, she crossed to a table just inside the door, removed an already opened bottle of white wine from a cooler, and began pouring a glass for her guest.
Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed a bowl of water on the floor between the two chairs, presumably in readiness for Pommes Frites; a pointer to the fact that he might be in for a longer session than he had bargained for.
Wilting in the face of Madame Grante’s gimlet stare, he began to wish he had taken time to change his clothing and freshen up before setting out. He hadn’t even bothered to shave before leaving home. Without feeling his chin, he was suddenly acutely aware of 5 a.m. stubble.
‘Please forgive me,’ he began, ‘I hadn’t planned …’
‘It is said that God smiles when he looks down on people and sees them making plans,’ said Madame Grante.
So speaks the typical Arien, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse.
In his inimitable way, Bernard had put his finger on it. Having spent time in the wine trade before becoming an inspector, he had a habit of equating people with olive oil.
Véronique, for example, he classed as being extra-virgine; flavoursome, with very low acidity and easily digested. Few, apart from the new arrival, Boulet, would have disagreed with his findings. Madame Grante, on the other hand, came under the heading of plain virgine. According to Bernard, although often possessed of potentially good flavour, it could also have double the acidity, occasionally causing it to sink to the level of refined oil, thus rendering it basically unsuitable for human consumption.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered which it would be tonight. With Le Guide’s Head of Accounts it was a case of ‘what you saw was what you got’. Viewing the rigid, upright stance and the straight line of her lips set in the thinnest of wintry smiles, he feared the worst.
Her words were probably meant to put him at his ease, but they had quite the opposite effect.
‘There must be times,’ he said, essaying a second attempt at breaking the ice, ‘when God gazes down on the world and wonders if He did the right thing in bringing it all about.’
It was like water off a duck’s back.
‘Coming events cast their shadows before,’ said Madame Grante, in a voice of doom.
Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his mobile. ‘If you will excuse me, I promised to telephone my wife to let her know I am here.’
Although he knew in his heart he was clutching at straws, he also wanted to tell her about the loss of his watch in case he had left it behind, but the thought was still-born.
His sudden movement set off a chain reaction; a piercing shriek, which in turn triggered off the key finder in his jacket pocket.
There was a momentary flash of blue from Jo Jo’s cage as he clung to the side of it in order to launch a sustained attack on something pink attached to the bars. The grinding noise only added to the general clamour.
‘He always goes straight for his iodised nibble when he is frightened,’ said Madame Grante accusingly. ‘It comforts him.’
‘Perhaps we should all have one,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, shelving the idea of phoning Doucette for the time being. ‘An industrial-size nibble for three, perhaps?’
‘Comment allez-vous?’ Jo Jo reverted to his gruff voice, ‘Comment allez-vous?’
Ask me again in an hour’s time, was Monsieur Pamplemousse’s gut reaction, but he kept the thought to himself.
Madame Grante picked up her half-empty glass with one hand and Jo Jo’s cage with the other. ‘I shall leave you in peace,’ she said. ‘I know you have much to discuss.’
‘She’s a funny old thing,’ said Véronique, handing him the glass of wine when they were alone. ‘But she means well and she has a lot on her mind at the moment. Anyway, you looked worried when you arrived, Aristide. Is everything all right?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse told her about his latest loss. ‘First my pen, now my watch … I feel bereft without them.’
‘Un malheur n’arrive jamais seul,’ said Véronique.
He gave a shrug. She was right, of course. Misfortunes never seemed to arrive singly.
Véronique seated herself in the chair Madame Grante had vacated. ‘Now, I suppose you are waiting for the third thing to happen.’
‘There would appear to be no shortage of possibilities,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily.
He sipped his wine. It was a Riesling. Suitably chilled, clean and perfectly balanced; dry, but with a laid-back fruitiness. It provided instant cheer.
‘Superb!’
‘It is from Weinbach-Faller.’ Véronique acknowledged the compliment. ‘Madame Faller brings a woman’s touch to
wine making.’
‘Tell me …’ ignoring the temptation to say Heaven forbid Madame Grante should ever take up wine making; acidic levels would be high, he lowered his voice. ‘If it isn’t a rude question, why is …’
‘… Violaine staying with me? Promise you will keep it a secret.’
‘I wouldn’t dare do otherwise.’
‘It all started with something she read in the horoscope section of le Parisien – Mars clashing with Venus, or whatever – I’m not too up on these things. She came to see me soon after she began receiving threats and she has been here ever since.’
‘Someone has been threatening Madame Grante?’ It was hard to picture.
‘Not directly … but Jo Jo. In her eyes, that is much, much worse.’
‘Jo Jo? What can you possibly threaten a budgerigar with?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Other than cutting off its supply of seeds?’
‘Dipping its millet spray in Prussic acid,’ said Véronique. ‘Spreading glue on the inside of its bell, ready for when he puts his head under it first thing in the morning. Left there for any length of time it could go rock solid.
‘Stapling his little legs together before dropping him out of the window and counting the seconds before he hits the ground.
‘Bending his beak back on itself with some hot pliers so that when he is let loose he doesn’t know whether he is coming or going.’
‘You are not serious?’
‘Tying a string round his neck and dipping him into a bowl of batter before plunging him into a saucepan full of hot fat …’ continued Véronique. ‘There is no end of things you can do to a budgerigar if you are so inclined and have a fertile imagination.
‘Supposing it were Pommes Frites?’ she added, seeing the look on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face.
‘I wouldn’t like to be the person who tried it on,’ he said grimly.
‘But, just supposing … apart from administering a good peck, budgerigars aren’t like dogs, they don’t have much in the way of defences.’
‘I don’t want to hear any more.’
‘Neither does Madame Grante,’ said Véronique. ‘Is it any wonder she has been having nightmares? That’s why I suggested she stay here with me for the time being. It seemed the most sensible thing to do. She has no one else to turn to.’
‘Does Monsieur Leclercq know?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘About the threats to Jo Jo, I mean.’
Véronique shook her head. ‘It all began while he was away in New York. The first time was bad enough, but then it became a daily occurrence … with each threat worse than the one before … Besides, he has enough on his plate at the moment.’
‘Were these threats made over the phone?’
‘They came through the post.’
‘Does she still have the letters? It might give some kind of a lead. Handwriting can be a help in building up a character analysis. Besides, they can do wonders these days with DNA.’
Véronique made a face. ‘Violaine burnt them all as fast as they came. She said she couldn’t bear having them around, and I’m not surprised. But I doubt if it would have helped a lot even if she had kept them. They were put together using words cut from various sources; journals … headlines in le Parisien … advertisements.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt doubly glad he had taken precautions against his being followed to her apartment.
‘Has she been out at all since she arrived?’
‘I have told her to stay in for the time being. She has all the food she needs, and plenty of books.
‘The suggestion that she might be replaced by a laptop came as the final straw when she got to hear of it. I can’t picture her going back to Le Guide at all now.’
‘Do you think replacing her that way is remotely possible?’
‘No one is indispensable,’ said Véronique. ‘But it would need to be a very powerful laptop, and it would still need someone to operate it …’ She tapped her forehead. ‘At the end of the day, it still wouldn’t be a match for Madame Grante’s very own memory bank.’
‘I wonder why?’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Why?’
‘Why something like this has happened now of all times? Is it simply another case of dropping a spanner in the works, or is there some other deeper reason?’
‘Her absence has certainly had a bad effect on staff morale,’ said Véronique, ‘but that is only a small part of it. No doubt Monsieur Leclercq has told you about other things that have been going on while you have been away?’
‘Some of them,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse carefully, ‘but I imagine not all. Did the letters stop arriving after Madame Grante moved out of her own apartment?’
‘That’s a thought,’ said Véronique. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. I can go round and check, if you like.’
‘I think perhaps I ought to do it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Especially in view of all you have said. Someone may be keeping a watch on her building and I wouldn’t want them to put two and two together and follow you back.’
‘You think that could happen?’ Véronique gave an involuntary shiver.
‘From all you have told me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I think it is more than likely.
‘In fact,’ he continued, once again wearing his Quai des Orfèvres hat, ‘I would go further. I would suggest that while Madame Grante is staying with you she should take every precaution when she is on her own; ignore any unexpected telephone calls, or someone ringing the entry phone.
‘If that happens, she should do what Balzac did when he was in hiding – have some kind of code ready. His used to be “Plums are in season”.’
‘That sounds highly suspicious for a start,’ said Véronique. Glancing over her shoulder she lowered her voice and did a passable imitation of Madame Grante’s incisive tones.
‘Not very suitable for this time of the year.’
‘I believe he had an alternative for other occasions,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘“I am bringing lace from Belgium” was one.
‘Or … we could invent something.’ He plucked an idea out of the air. “Have you noticed champagne glasses are taller this year?”’
‘Do you think anyone would say a thing like that?’ Véronique sounded dubious.
‘Doucette does all the time,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘She bought some new ones the other day and she can’t fit them into the dishwasher. She thinks the people who make them are in league with the vineyards, who want people to drink more champagne.
‘I tell her it is more likely the makers of dishwashers hoping people will update their machines.’
‘Ask a silly question,’ said Véronique.
‘That is really the whole point,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You need some kind of statement that will stop a person momentarily in their tracks. In Balzac’s case it was a matter of playing for time. Time enough for him to escape from his creditors by going out the back door and taking off down the rue Berton. Madame Grante doesn’t have that advantage. There is nowhere for her to go. But if she has a mobile it would give her time to call for help.’
‘Oh, dear!’ Véronique pulled a face. ‘What a mess! I feel it is partly my fault, anyway. Which is really why I wanted to see you as soon as possible.’
‘Tell me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Monsieur Lecercq’s secretary gazed out of the window at the winking lights on the far side of the river while she gathered her thoughts.
Another late night Bâteau-Mouche appeared. This time it looked only half full, which still wasn’t bad for the time of year. Slowing down to take advantage of the width of the river beyond the end of the Allée, the Captain executed an impeccable U-turn, then the boat quickly gathered speed again as it headed back upstream on the far side of the island.
They both watched until it disappeared out of sight towards its starting point near the Pont Neuf.
He turned to Véronique. ‘So … ?’
‘It all sounds a bit
silly, but I really have no one else I can talk to in the office. Working on the top floor has its advantages, privileges if you like, but having others to share your problems with is not one of them.’
‘I am honoured,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But why me?’
‘Because of your background,’ said Véronique. ‘Your time in the Sûreté. And most of all because of the fact that although you have always enjoyed a special relationship with Monsieur Leclercq, you have never taken advantage of it. Rather the reverse, it has always seemed to me.’
‘I owe it to him,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply.
‘You may have noticed,’ continued Véronique, ‘that just lately he has been on one of his periodic belt-tightening missions.’
‘I’ve seen the memos about making sure lights are turned off when you leave a room at night, if that’s what you mean,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Véronique got up from her chair and returned with the wine bottle.
‘The cost of producing Le Guide goes up all the time,’ she said, replenishing their glasses. ‘As does everything else, of course, but it is a constant worry. The business of Michelin having to pulp their guide to Belgium bothered him more than he was prepared to admit at the time. It was a warning about how vulnerable we are.
‘Monsieur Leclercq has steadfastly refused to take advertising. To him that would be the beginning of the end. Also he feels increasing the price is not an option.
‘Then there is the constant problem of trying to keep up with current trends in the industry. It is a nightmare. When I first joined Le Guide, things evolved slowly. Most chefs stayed where they were for years on end. But the pace of life has hotted up. Nothing stands still any more. People want something new all the time.
‘Some of them have lost sight of the fact that the true definition of the word restaurateur is one who restores, just as the word restaurant itself was originally a medical term. In the beginning it usually meant some form of bouillon-based broth that acted as a restorative.
