Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (14 page)

Musically, a persistent bleeping noise provided a rhythmic beat, whilst a loud howl from Pommes Frites as the stone became detached from its mounting and broke into several pieces, the largest of which landed in his steak, produced a satisfactory coda.

As the sounds died away, the door burst open and a sea of faces appeared.

‘It is nothing,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘
C’est
normale
.’

Removing the key finder from his jacket pocket, he held it up for all to see. ‘Something must have set it off. It happens from time to time.

‘Much more serious is the fact that there is a foreign body in my dog’s steak
haché
.’

‘A foreign body!’ Entering the room, the assistant
maître
d
’ drew himself up to his full height. ‘
Impossible
!’

Pommes Frites, having taken a closer look at his dinner, gave another howl; this time in support of his master.

‘
Asseyez
-
vous
,’ commanded Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘
Immédiatement
!’

He bent down and removed the offending object from Pommes Frites’ bowl.

Holding it aloft between thumb and forefinger, he indicated the reflected light from the chandelier.

‘If that isn’t glass,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what is!’

For a brief moment there was the kind of silence you could have cut with a knife.

‘Glass!’ repeated the assistant
maître
d
’.

‘Glass!’ echoed Maria. ‘What do you mean,
glass
?’

‘Glass,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is a transparent solid made from a fused mixture of oxides. It is useful in many ways, but being highly brittle it should never be confused with diamonds.’

Maria glared at him, grabbed her handbag, and made for the door. ‘Excuse
me
,’ she said. ‘I need to make a call.’

‘Small pieces of glass,’ continued Monsieur
Pamplemousse, turning to the
maître d
’, ‘are also highly indigestible and not to be recommended when mixed in with any kind of food.’

The
maître
d
’ signalled to one of his underlings.

‘The matter will be attended to,’ he said, leaving no room for doubt that it would be. ‘In the meantime, you have my sincere apologies. I assure you, monsieur, it will not happen again.’

Left to his own devices, Monsieur Pamplemousse took out his mobile and dialled a number.

Doucette must have been in the kitchen, for it took her a while to answer. In the meantime, he guessed Maria was probably giving the Director hell.

‘Doucette, please do me a favour. As you know, I no longer have a watch, but could you give it a few minutes, then call me back?

‘No, Couscous … everything is fine …

‘There is nothing whatsoever to worry about …’ He was suddenly reminded of Monsieur Leclercq’s telephone conversation on the plane.

‘I will explain when I see you,’ he added.

‘
Oui
… some of the left-over prawn dish will be fine …’

While he was talking, a hitherto unseen waiter carrying a bowl of freshly minced steak for Pommes Frites came and went. Hearing raised voices in the corridor outside, Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily cut the call and put the phone down on the floor beside his chair.

He barely had time to relax before Maria reappeared.

From the look on her face, he wondered if she was on drugs and had taken a quick fix. Her eyes didn’t show any sign of dilation. If anything, they looked more purposeful, so he dismissed the idea.

Given that she also appeared to have renewed her lip-gloss in no uncertain manner, he felt more than ever glad he’d made the call home.

‘No luck?’

She gave a noncommittal grunt.

‘Bastard!’

Holding the ring aloft as though it were some eyeless archaeological relic newly unearthed from an Egyptian tomb, she collapsed onto the banquette.

‘They do say love conquers all.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to offer a crumb of comfort.

‘Believe that,’ said Maria bitterly, ‘and you’ll believe anything! Just wait until I see him. Cheapskate!’

She looked as though she was about to launch into a long tirade, when she spotted something on the carpet.

‘There’s another piece of my so-called precious gem! Mind your dog doesn’t tread on it …’

Seeing Pommes Frites prick up his ears, Monsieur Pamplemousse joined her in making a dive for the spot.

From his vantage point on the other side of the table Pommes Frites half rose, then changed his mind. It was clearly a case of an immovable object about to meet up with an irresistible force. Had he been given to making bets he would have put his
money on his master any day of the week. Weight for weight, the girl didn’t stand a chance.

But then, being an animal of noble and upright disposition, the prospect of foul play raising its ugly head didn’t for one moment enter his mind. It wasn’t until he saw a silk-clad leg shoot out that he had second thoughts, but by then it was too late.

He winced inwardly as heads collided, and for a fraction of a second both parties hovered in mid-air before falling to the ground.

Ending up gasping for breath, the girl on top of him and with a ringing noise in his head, Monsieur Pamplemousse was mortified. All too late, he realised he had become a victim of one of the oldest tricks in the world.

For the second time that day he felt arms encircling him; the main difference this time being that the hands that went with them were hardly still for a moment. It was worse, far worse than being frisked at an airport during a major security alert.

Gradually coming to, he realised the ringing was coming from a telephone. Reaching out with a free hand, he groped around blindly for his mobile and, as he did so, made contact with … He froze … Monsieur Leclercq’s disastrous experience on the plane still fresh in his mind, he found himself momentarily wondering if it was the Director’s phone rather than his, and if that there were the case, was it still in place? If so …

Opening his eyes, he saw to his relief Pommes Frites
standing alongside him, the mobile in his mouth.

‘
Alors
!’ Giving his ever-resourceful friend and mentor a welcome pat, he relieved him of the handset and pressed the receive button.

‘Is everything all right, Aristide?’ Doucette’s voice came through loud and clear.

‘You asked me to call you.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt the body on top of him stiffen.

‘No, I didn’t,’ he hissed. ‘You must be imagining things.’

‘Imagining things! What do you mean?’ Doucette sounded aggrieved.

‘I think you must have been having one of your attacks, Couscous …’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Attacks! What attacks?’

‘The … ones … you … are … prone … to …’ he tried to spell it out as clearly as possible, hoping the message would get through. ‘Don’t move, I will be with you as soon as possible …’

Pressing the off button, he struggled without success to push Maria to one side, and he was still trying when the phone rang again.

‘You sound out of breath, Aristide,’ said Doucette. ‘Why are you breathing so heavily?’

‘It is Pommes Frites, Doucette,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You know how he hates the heat and it is very warm in here. We are in one of the small rooms … listen …’

Retrieving his other hand, he cupped both of them
over the mouthpiece and went into his dog on heat routine.

‘It may be very popular at staff parties, Aristide,’ said Doucette, ‘particularly near the end of the evening when everyone has had too much to drink, but …’

‘You should get yourself a headset and leave your hands free,’ said Maria. ‘Be a multi-tasker like me.’

‘Who is that?’ asked Doucette

‘It is a girl at the next table …’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘She is a little the worse for drink, and …’

‘But I thought you said you are in a small room …’

‘One of the
smaller
rooms …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse paused as he heard a knock at the door. ‘Listen, Coucous,’ he said desperately. ‘I have to go. Don’t ring me … I will ring you.

‘I am afraid my guest has been taken ill,’ he said lamely, as the
maître
d
’ entered. ‘In the circumstances …’

‘Of course, monsieur …’ there was a moment’s hesitation, accompanied by a barely discernable raising of an eyebrow. ‘Would monsieur prefer a helping hand, a doctor, or
l’addition
?’

‘
L’addition
,
s’il
vous plait
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As quickly as possible.’

Heading back home, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned right onto the Pont du Carousel, narrowly missing a couple of pedestrians who were trying to beat the
lights. He realised with a shock he was in auto-drive. He had no recollection whatsoever of the first few minutes of his journey and the drive along the fast moving race track known as the Quai des
Grands-Augustins
.

Who could have blamed him after all that had happened? In the cold light of day, a judge for one.

With that in mind, he slowed down rather than accelerating for the lights on the far side of the river in case they changed to red. A driver behind him, taken by surprise, leant on his horn.

There was a brief exchange of mimed unpleasantries as the man overtook him. There being no justice in this world, he made the lights before they changed, Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t.

To say Maria was a fast worker would have been the understatement of all times.

It was little wonder Véronique and Madame Grante were worried. How Monsieur Leclercq could possibly have given her a job – and as an adviser, no less – was beyond him.

In the conversational stakes she was probably more than a match for his boss.

He could picture it all: against a girl who doubtless did most of her thinking on her back rather than on her feet – a
grande
horizontale
in the making if ever he’d seen one – Monsieur Leclercq wouldn’t have stood a chance, but even so …

Going over the evening’s events, he wondered if he
was right to have thrown in the towel like he did, but clearly Maria had been of like mind. Following the last debacle with Doucette’s phone call, she couldn’t wait for it to be over.

One thing was certain. Something must be done about the matter, and quickly.

Taking a right turn in the Avenue de l’Opera, he spotted a gap in the line of parked cars and pulled in. It was time he phoned Jacques again and put him straight.

He got through almost immediately. From the background noise it sounded as though he was on the Metro.

‘It’s a girl!’

‘Congratulations! How much did it weigh?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse held the receiver away from his head. He was in no mood for jokes, especially ones in poor taste.

‘The one going by the name of Péage. As it happens, I can let you have her picture.’

‘Now you’re talking.’ Jacques did his best to sound contrite.

‘I will do a printout and drop it in for you first thing tomorrow.’

‘
Ciao
.
Dormez
-
bien
.’

‘You must be joking,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Feeling in a slightly better mood, he made the rest of the journey home in record time, and having put his car to bed for the night, took Pommes Frites for a quick walk around the block.

As he stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor he felt for his keys.

‘
Merde
!’

What with one thing and another, he must have left them in the restaurant. Unless it was the proverbial third thing, there shouldn’t be any problem getting them back. For the time being, though, it was the final ignominy, having to phone Doucette again in order to be let into his own apartment.

‘You told me on no account to answer the door,’ said Doucette, when she opened it.

‘I didn’t bargain on losing my keys, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘What
has
been going on, Aristide? I couldn’t make head nor tail of it over the phone. First you told me one thing, then another.’

‘It was,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘a constantly changing scenario. The problem is much bigger than I thought. And more complicated. I was dining with Monsieur Leclercq’s new adviser.’

Switching his camera to ‘playback’, he showed Doucette the picture on the screen.

‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘I do see what you mean.’

‘She has to be working for someone else,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But for the time being, for whatever reason, she seems to have the Director wrapped round her little finger. Just as she had herself wrapped round me earlier on.’

‘How very embarrassing,’ said Doucette.

‘I think,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that over
the years they have probably seen most things at Lapérouse. Nothing surprises them any more.’

Over the warmed-up remains of the prawn dish he gave Doucette an edited version of the evening’s events.

‘You are always saying Monsieur Leclercq shouldn’t be allowed out by himself,’ said Doucette when he was through. ‘It sounds to me as though he isn’t the only one.’

‘That was different,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gruffly.

‘Talking of the Director,’ said Doucette, ‘He phoned while you were out. He was speaking from home and it sounded urgent. He said, could you ring him back?’

‘Aristide …’ the Director’s voice sounded muffled, as though he had his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘We are in an
Estragon
situation.’

It didn’t sound a promising opening. He decided to swallow his pride.

‘Perhaps, monsieur, we should meet …’

‘
Oui
. I think so too. Somewhere not too close to the office … Have you any suggestions?’

‘How about the Luxembourg Gardens?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There is an entrance opposite rue Vavin where it joins rue d’Assas and rue Guynemer. Turn right when you are inside and follow the path round. I will be waiting just beyond the statue.’

Monsieur Leclercq sounded dubious. ‘As I recall, Pamplemousse, the Jardin de Luxembourg is full of
statues. You can hardly move for them. It is hard to tell one from another.’