Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution

by Michael Bond

  ‘One turns a corner,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and one’s whole life changes. I certainly have no cause for regret.’

  ‘I have a big favour to ask of you, Aristide.’

  ‘Monsieur has only to ask,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, privately wishing the Director would get on with whatever it was he had in mind.

  ‘Glancing through your P27,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I see that, apart from the many accomplishments you list, particularly those acquired during your time in the police force, weapon training and so on, you are clearly not without literary aspirations.’

  ‘A great deal of my time in the Paris Sûreté was spent writing reports,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In some respects it is a very bureaucratic organisation. One always endeavoured to make them as clear and succinct as possible; marshalling the facts to prove the point in such a way as to leave no room for doubt. Defending lawyers are past masters in the art of ferreting out any loophole in the law.’

  ‘Have you ever thought of taking your writing more seriously?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘Since joining Le Guide all I have done is contribute a few articles to L’Escargot.’

  ‘The staff magazine would have been all the poorer without them,’ said the Director. ‘I particularly enjoyed your last piece, “Whither le coq au vin”.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was beginning to wonder where the conversation was leading. It felt as though they were getting nowhere very fast.

  ‘Apart from one or two outlying districts in Burgundy,’ he said, ‘the dish is becoming more and more of a rarity. Its preparation is time consuming and, as you wisely remarked earlier, the emphasis everywhere these days is on speed. As for my taking up writing, that also requires time. And thinking time is becoming a rare luxury these days.’

  ‘That being the case, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘how would you feel if I were to grant you a few weeks unofficial leave? Over and above your normal quota, of course,’ he added hastily. ‘Both you and Pommes Frites have been very busy on extra curricular activities of late. You could do with some quality time at home.’

  ‘I must admit,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that when I first joined Le Guide I pictured leading a more tranquil life. In many respects, as Doucette reminded me only the other day, it has been quite the reverse.

  ‘There was that unfortunate affair involving your wife’s Uncle Caputo. His connections with the Mafia must be a constant source of worry to you.

  ‘Prior to that there was the case of the poisoned chocolates … If you remember, Pommes Frites accidentally overdosed on some aphrodisiac tablets and ran amok among the canine guests in the Pommes d’Or hotel. It’s a wonder people still take their pets with them when they stay there.

  ‘Then, more recently, there was your unfortunate encounter with the young lady who was masquerading as a nun on the flight back from America. The one who invited you to join the Mile High Club …’

  ‘Please, Pamplemousse, I do not wish to be reminded of these things.’ Monsieur Leclercq held up his hand. ‘You have yet to answer my question.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse chose his words with care. ‘The suggestion is not without its attractions, Monsieur. On the other hand, I find it hard to picture being idle for that length of time …’

  ‘Oh, you won’t be idle, Aristide,’ broke in the Director. ‘Not at this particular juncture. You can rest assured on that score.’

  There it was again! Monsieur Pamplemousse’s eyes narrowed. ‘When you use the word “juncture”, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘what exactly do you mean?’

  ‘Really, Aristide …’ Monsieur Leclercq brushed aside the question impatiently, much as he might dispose of an errant fly about to make a forced landing in his glass of d’Yquem. ‘The word “juncture” simply underlines the fact that at this point in time we have reached a moment critique in our fortunes. A window of opportunity has presented itself, which, if all goes well, will provide us with a golden opportunity to hit a home run.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse winced. Anyone less likely than the Director to hit a home run in the accepted sense of the word would be hard to image.

  ‘Am I to take it, Monsieur, that you have a solution in mind, and that I can help in some way?’

  ‘That,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘sums the whole thing up in the proverbial nutshell.

  ‘I am not normally superstitious, Aristide,’ he continued, ‘but when I woke this morning and found not one but two blackbirds perched on my bedroom window sill, I feared the worst. I mistrust one blackbird, but two …

  ‘Then, when my wife explained to me that not only was it a good omen, but a singularly rare one at that, I felt a sudden surge of excitement. It was a case of cause and effect. Chantal’s enthusiasm was contagious. On my way into the office this morning the way ahead and the solution to our problems in America became clear.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse exchanged glances with Pommes Frites as the Director crossed to the door, made sure it was properly shut, then returned to his desk and, having phoned Véronique to ensure they were not disturbed, sat back in his chair and beamed at them.

  The preliminaries off his chest so to speak, he was starting to look positively rejuvenated, almost as though a great weight had been lifted from his mind.

  ‘I knew I could rely on you, Aristide,’ he said. ‘In fact …’ breaking off, he rose to his feet again and headed for the drinks cabinet.

  ‘I think it calls for a celebration. Some of your favourite Gosset champagne, perhaps? Or shall I open a bottle of the Roullet très hors age cognac?’ His hand hovered over the glasses. ‘The choice is yours. Which is it to be?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. He was unaware of having even remotely agreed to anything. ‘I hope you won’t think I am being difficult,’ he said, ‘but without knowing exactly what we are celebrating it is hard to reach a decision.’

  He should have known better.

  For a brief moment Monsieur Leclercq looked suitably chastened. ‘You are absolutely right, Aristide,’ he exclaimed. ‘I am so excited by the turn of events I am getting ahead of myself.’

  He struck one of his Napoleonic poses; a pose honed to perfection over the years by taking in the view from his window of the Emperor’s last resting place beneath the golden dome of the nearby Hôtel des Invalides.

  ‘Pamplemousse,’ he said grandly, ‘I have a plan of campaign! It is my wish to run it up the flagpole and see if, in your view, it flies.

  ‘If your answer is in the affirmative, then it is really a question of pulling all the right levers, and for that we shall need what is known as a road map.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily opted for a glass of champagne. It was a good buck-you-up at any time of the day or night, and he suddenly felt in need of one.

  ‘Monsieur Leclercq has a plan?’ repeated Doucette over dinner. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘It is what he calls a “road map”, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I must say I was a bit sceptical myself at first.’

  ‘How many weeks will it take you?’

  ‘That all depends on how many dead ends I come across,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse vaguely. He toyed with the remains of his dessert. ‘It needs to be in place before the start of the racing season in Deauville.’

  ‘It would never do to miss that,’ said Doucette dryly.

  ‘It is all mixed up with the annual staff party at his summer residence,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As always, wives are invited too, only this year, if all goes well, there will be an extra guest; a very important one.’

  ‘July? That’s over two months away.’

  ‘Just think,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘All that time at home.’ He spooned the remains of the dessert onto his plate. ‘Once again, Couscous, tell me the recipe for this delicious concoction. What is it called? Crème bachique?’

  ‘Bacchus Delight,’ said Doucette, ‘is a baked custard made with half a li
tre or so of Sauternes, six egg yolks, four ounces of sugar and a touch of cinnamon.’

  ‘But made with love,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That is the most important ingredient, Couscous.’

  He gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘It is good to be home. White asparagus from the Landes with sauce mousseline – one of my favourites; sole, pan-fried in butter, seasoned with parsley and lemon and served with tiny new potatoes; and now Bacchus Delight … what more could any man wish for? Simple dishes, all of them, but as I have so often said in the past, anyone can follow a recipe. It takes love and understanding to bring a meal to full fruition. It is what is known as “the passion”.’

  ‘If you and Pommes Frites are planning to be around for two whole months, don’t expect to eat like this every day of the week,’ said Doucette, as she bustled around clearing the table. ‘Besides, there are all sorts of things that need attending to. The window boxes could do with a thorough going over for a start. I will make a list …’

  ‘First things first,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse hurriedly. ‘It is a matter of priorities.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Doucette, ‘I suggest you start by telling me exactly what Monsieur Leclercq has in mind.’

  ‘Ah!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. ‘Now that, Couscous, is going to take time. Time, and a measure of understanding. Perhaps, as an aid to digesting it all, before I begin we should open another bottle of Meursault? It involves my writing a play.’

  Pommes Frites looked from one to the other before settling down in a corner of the room. A good deal of the conversation that day had gone over his head, but he knew the signs. Weighing up the pros and cons and coming down heavily on the side of the cons, it seemed to him his master might well be in need of support before the night was out.

  If you enjoyed

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution,

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  by Michael Bond…

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  MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE HITS THE HEADLINES

  During his time as an inspector with the Paris Surete, Monsieur Pamplemousse had been ‘in at the death’ on more than one occasion, but even he had to admit that the phrase took on an entirely new meaning when he was present at the spectacular ending to Cuisine de Chavignol, France’s premier television cookery programme. Seated in the front row of an invited studio audience, he watched in silent horror as the eponymous host, having downed an oyster in close-up, uttered a strangled cry and slowly but surely sank from view behind a kitchen worktop.

  Pommes Frites, sniffer dog extraordinaire, has his own views on the matter: Claude Chavignol was a bad egg if ever he’d seen one. Subsequent events prove him right, and soon he and his master find themselves caught up in a bizarre world of unrequited lust, murder and blackmail in high places.

  MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AND THE MILITANT MIDWIVES

  Having delivered a particularly stirring speech at his recently deceased colleague’s funeral, Monsieur Pamplemousse is more than a little disturbed when the coffin explodes into flames during the ceremony. Luckily his faithful hound Pommes Frites gives out a warning cry just in time, so there are no casualties. But who exactly is behind this explosion – and what was the actual cause of his late co-workers demise? This latest in their wild romps find the entertaining duo meeting a CIA agent masquerading as a celebrity chef with a penchant for Krispy Kremes, causing chaos at a prestigious hotel, and experimenting with a dog translator.

  With delectable wit, sharp dialogue and a marvellous sense of timing, this latest in the adventures of Monsieur Pamplemousse and his beloved hound will have you chuckling out loud and crying out for more.

  MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AND THE CARBON FOOTPRINT

  Le Guide, France’s premier gastronomic guide, is failing to whet the appetite of its audience in America. Bribed by the Director with offers of some time off, Monsieur Pamplemousse agrees to flex his literary muscles in a bid to address the problem.

  The result is the ex-detective’s directorial debut, complete with walk-on part for faithful bloodhound, Pommes Frites. Everything rests on special guest, Jay Corby, acclaimed American food-critic, whose good opinion could change their transatlantic fortunes. But disaster strikes on opening night when a manoeuvre with a trapdoor causes Corby to storm out in a rage.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse must find him before he ruins everything for Le Guide. Once again he can rely on star sniffer dog, Pommes Frites, who is hot on the trail of their only lead, but also the flimsy undergarments of an exotic dancer they’d happened upon in a state of undress earlier that day.

  About the Author

  MICHAEL BOND was born in Newbury, Berkshire in 1926 and started writing whilst serving in the army during the Second World War. In 1958 the first book featuring his most famous creation, Paddington Bear, was published and many stories of his adventures followed. In 1983 he turned his hand to adult fiction and the detective cum gastronome par excellence Monsieur Pamplemousse was born. This is the seventeenth book to feature Monsieur Pamplemousse and his faithful bloodhound Pommes Frites.

  Michael Bond was awarded the OBE in 1997 and in 2007 was made an Honorary Doctor of Letters by Reading University. He is married, with two grown-up children, and lives in London.

  By Michael Bond

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat

  Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation

  Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  13 Charlotte Mews

  London W1T 4EJ

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  Hardcover published in Great Britain in 2007.

  Paperback edition published in 2011.

  This ebook edition first published in 2011.

  Copyright © 2007 by MICHAEL BOND

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from

  the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–4053–6