Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (15 page)

‘This one is of Sainte-Beuve,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse patiently. ‘It is by a large Braille map erected for the benefit of the blind. You cannot possibly miss it. That part of the gardens is given over to the growing of fruit trees. It should be quiet at this time of the year.

‘Assuming you will be coming by car, will find there is street parking in rue Guynemer itself. It is for a maximum of two hours, but that should give us ample time. You will need a card, but you can buy one at any
tabac
.’

‘Aristide, as always, I admire your attention to detail,’ said Monsieur Leclercq.

‘Shall we say ten-thirty, monsieur?’

‘Ten-thirty,’ echoed the Director meekly.

‘I hate to say it, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as he began getting undressed later that evening, ‘but I have been thinking …’

‘… it is time I went to stay with my sister, Agathe.’ Doucette finished the sentence for him.

‘It would relieve me of one worry. I suspect that from now on I shall be in need of Pommes Frites’ services day and night, and given that he can’t be in two places at once …’

‘There are times,’ said Doucette, ‘when I feel positively clairvoyant.’ She pointed to a suitcase behind the door. ‘What do you think I’ve been doing this evening? You can have my keys while I am away.’

‘I hope it won’t be for long,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And if I’m not there,’ he added by way of consolation, ‘at least you won’t have to put up with her
tripes á la mode de Caen
.’

As things turned out, Monsieur Pamplemousse was glad he had opted for the least populated part of the Luxembourg Gardens. Chairs were in short supply.

The mass of berries he’d seen on a yew tree suggested a hard winter ahead, but for the time being at least there was a sudden change in the weather. The wind had dropped, the sun was shining, and from being only a few degrees above freezing, the temperature had risen to 24 Celsius; ‘a wall to wall ceiling of blue’ in the words of a radio forecaster, waxing lyrical. It could have been a spring morning, except there was nothing in bud.

And, as ever, Parisians were making the most of it.

From where he was sitting, distant flurries from the tennis courts floated through the air, steady thwacks mingling with the sporadic thud of steel
boules striking the wooden safety boards surrounding the Pétanque area. Above it all, there was the sound of tractors hurrying to and fro, taking advantage of the Indian summer to speed up the annual transfer of less hardy flora to their winter quarters. Bees in the nearby apiary must be scratching their heads.

And
it was half term. That was something else he hadn’t bargained on. The main part of the gardens was awash with small figures. Interspersed with an occasional series of shrill blasts from a police whistle, they more than added their mite to the overall buzz of activity.

Once again, he found himself instinctively glancing at his wrist only to draw a blank.

When things were back to normal he would do something about it. In the meantime … it wasn’t like the Director to be late, so he was probably having difficulty finding somewhere to park.

But no, talk of the devil! The thought was still-born as a familiar figure, carrier bag in one hand, briefcase in the other, rounded a corner and headed in his direction.

As he drew near, the Director’s face registered disappointment. ‘No Pommes Frites, Aristide?’ he exclaimed. ‘How very unfortunate. I have been all the way to a dog
biscuiterie
in the 15
^th
arrondissement
.’

He made it sound like a trek to the North Pole, and Monsieur Pamplemousse was on the point of asking what the weather was like in those parts, when he was beaten to the draw.

‘It is called Mon Bon Chien,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, ‘An American lady runs it, and being something of a gourmet herself, she tells me her products not only contain no sugar or salt, but they are guaranteed free of all preservatives. Had I known about it earlier, for a small sum Pommes Frites could have had his name imprinted on the biscuits.’

‘We have always brought him up not to read while he is at table,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gravely.

His words fell on deaf ears.

‘Quite right,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Old-fashioned values are worth preserving. All the same, I shall be interested to know what he makes of them. It could make an interesting entry for
Le Guide
.’

Clearly, the Director was in a more conciliatory mood than when they had last met, but if the biscuits were meant to be a peace offering, Monsieur Pamplemousse made sure it fell on stony ground.

‘I will give them to him later,’ he said coldly. ‘For the time being he is in my car.

Dogs are not allowed to enter the gardens by this gate. They are obliged to use the Gay Lussac entrance, or failing that, Royal Collard or the one at Observatoire Est on the opposite side of the gardens. Even then they have to be on a leash.’

‘I trust you have left his window ajar?’ said the Director. ‘These sudden spells of hot weather can be very deceptive.’

‘The windows on my 2CV are almost permanently ajar,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘However, Citroën
have more than made up for such lapses. The ability to park where others have failed is just one of the many reasons why I remain wedded to it.’

‘Where there’s a will, Pamplemousse, there is a way.’ Monsieur Leclercq countered the intended thrust with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I managed to squeeze my CX25 into the last two remaining places in the rue Guynemer. In fact, it was just outside the entrance gates you suggested.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help wondering if the Director had paid for a second parking space. He wouldn’t fancy his chances otherwise. On a day like today the ladies from the
Agents de Surveillance
would be out in force, ticket machines at the ready.

‘The rear half was on a pedestrian crossing,’ said Monsieur Leclercq in response to his question. ‘I had a quiet word with the meter maid,’ he added grandly. ‘A pretty little thing. She said she hadn’t seen my car, but I was to make sure it wasn’t there the next time she went past in case she did. She kept me talking, which is why I am a little late.

‘You will have read my note, of course,’ he continued, seating himself in an adjoining chair. ‘I would hate you to think I was in earnest about declaring Pommes Frites redundant. I had expected you to be in touch earlier, but …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at him. In the heat of the moment he had completely forgotten the scrap of paper in his right jacket pocket.

‘I have been carrying it around ever since you gave
it to me,’ he said, begging the question as he felt in his pocket. Holding it aloft, carefully making sure the back faced the Director, he read the message scrawled on the front.

‘
Les mureilles ont des oreilles
!’

‘Walls have ears!’ It took a moment or two for the words to sink in. Then, suddenly, everything … the going out onto the balcony that first morning … the whispered exchanges … the unceremonious dismissal of Pommes Frites; all took on a new meaning.

It felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his mind. Thank goodness he hadn’t screwed the paper up and thrown it away unread. He had been sorely tempted to do so at the time.

‘In the circumstances,’ said the Director, ‘I considered it a necessary ploy. Given all the things that have been happening of late, I had almost come to believe the old adage, and that walls really do have ears. And yet, a sweep of the office by our security advisers has revealed nothing untoward.

‘I have to admire the way you cottoned on to my meaning as quickly as you did. Your explosion of righteous indignation was masterly. As for your spur of the moment resignation; it struck exactly the right note. Pommes Frites played along too. His howl was quite bloodcurdling.’

Congratulations dispensed with, Monsieur Leclercq sat back and took in the tranquil scene.

‘You have chosen well, Aristide,’ he said. ‘It is a long time since I last visited these gardens and one
tends to forget its many pleasures. There is something for everyone. I am, of course, familiar with the great avenues of chestnut trees and the flower-beds – Paris sets great store by its greenery – but I have to admit I was completely unaware of all these espaliered fruit trees laid out before me, like rows of giant candelabra. I must pay another visit when they are in leaf.’

‘There are over six hundred varieties of apples and pears,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘All of them labelled and dated. For that, we have to thank some Carthusian monks.’

‘What a wonderfully satisfying task tending them must be for their successors,’ said the Director.

‘The simplest-looking tasks often conceal a great deal of hard work,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That is part of their strength. Think of all the pruning they require; the feeding and the patient training of the branches – those known as the
Palmette
Verriers
have nineteen. Then there is the continual replacement of stock. Some of the trees are over a hundred years old. During the summer months, each and every fruit is enclosed in a paper bag before the wasps and the birds can get at them. For many of the staff it is a lifetime’s work.’

‘At least they have time to think,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Thinking time is very precious, Aristide. It is difficult to find peace and quiet in this day and age.’

He gazed benevolently at a loaded trailer as it went past. ‘It is another world. I hardly know the name of some of the flora I see around me.’

‘That was a pomegranate tree,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Its flowers are used in the manufacture of red ink.’

‘Where
do
you learn these things, Aristide?’

‘I am a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles, monsieur. It used to be part of my job.

Talking of which …’ He decided to take the plunge.

‘Yesterday evening,’ he said, ‘I dined at Lapérouse.’

The Director perked up. ‘Did you, now? How was it? Glandier gave it a good report recently. I trust you partook of rather more than unconsidered trifles while you were there.’

‘I think they deserve a special mention for the way they responded to an extremely difficult situation,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The staff could not be faulted. As for the meal … I would say the first course lived up to its promise, and the Meursault was excellent. Unfortunately, I didn’t get as far as the main course …’

‘It sounds as though you harbour doubts, Aristide.’

‘It wasn’t the food that gave rise to them,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘it was the company …’

‘Throughout its long history,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘no one has ever visited Lapérouse solely for the food. In its early days it was chicken farmers conducting their business, during the third republic the
salons
particuliers
were particularly popular with those indulging in clandestine affairs – or worse. Prostitution was rife,
horizontales
were made welcome, and the laws at the time were such that they
couldn’t be prosecuted. Nowadays, people go there to savour its past glories.’

‘I was in a
salon
particulier
last night,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The Otéro.’

‘Were you now?’ Monsieur Leclercq didn’t go so far as to say ‘you gay dog!’, but it was clear he thought it.

‘It was not my choice,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Fortunately, thanks to Véronique, I had Pommes Frites with me.’

Reaching into an inner pocket, he produced a second copy of the photograph he had left at the Quai des Orfèvres for Jacques. ‘This is a picture of my guest.’

To give him his due, Monsieur Leclercq didn’t bat an eyelid. It was almost as though he had sensed what was coming.

‘What did you think of her, Aristide?’ he asked after a moment’s pause.

‘As you rightly say, monsieur, she is a pretty little thing, but …’

‘She is not
comme il faut
?’ Monsieur Leclercq finished the sentence for him.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a shrug. ‘As the American singer, Dolly Parton, once said of someone: “It costs a lot of money to look cheap.”’

‘I can vouch for that,’ said the Director with feeling.

‘I also suspect she probably changes with the wind.’

‘Meaning?’

‘One can hardly dislike her. But basically, Maria has the attributes of a Japanese Geisha girl; she is all things to all people. Last night she merged in
with the décor as to the manner born. As a travelling companion in the
première
compartment of a jumbo jet I can well imagine time would fly too …’

‘Don’t remind me, Pamplemousse,’ groaned Monsieur Leclercq.

‘These things happen,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse sympathetically. ‘Now that I have met the girl, I think I understand more than I did when you first told me about her.

‘As for the rest of the evening, it had its difficult moments;
par exemple
, when she used the mirror to test a ring someone had bought her and the stone shattered.’

‘It did?’ Monsieur Leclercq went pale at the thought. ‘Was she very upset.’

‘Had I been the person who gave it to her,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and had I been there when it happened, I would not have fancied being in his shoes.’

‘It was a spur-of-the-moment decision on my part,’ said the Director. ‘I happen to know the owner of the shop. He is a person of the utmost discretion, so I was able to come to a private arrangement. He has special items he keeps for window display purposes only.’

‘I somehow doubt,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘if that would have gone down well with Maria.’

He was struck by a sudden thought. ‘You didn’t receive a call from her yesterday evening?’

‘Certainly not,’ said the Director. ‘The only incoming call was yours.’

They sat in silence for a moment or two. The Director’s mind clearly on other matters; Monsieur Pamplemousse wondering who Maria had been talking to if it wasn’t Monsieur Leclercq.

‘With great respect,’ he said, when he judged the time was right, ‘given all that had gone before, how could you possibly have given her the job?’

‘I didn’t exactly give it to her, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘She made it perfectly clear it was that or else.’

‘But …’

‘But nothing, Pamplemousse!’ The Director opened his briefcase. ‘As for what happened on board the plane … At the time, given the way the flash kept going off, I thought she was being particularly maladroit. It wasn’t until I saw these …’ Rummaging inside one of the inside pockets, he produced a handful of glossy prints, and after first looking over his shoulder to make sure no one else was around, handed them across.

‘Shortly after my return, these arrived through the post, along with a brief note spelling out what she had in mind.’

A feeling of
déjà
vu
came over Monsieur Pamplemousse as he skimmed through the bunch. They were worse than he had expected; far worse.

They reminded him of the time when the Director had been photographed in a compromising situation involving a washing machine in its spinning-drying mode. In practical terms, they were nothing like it of course, but parallels could be drawn. For someone
whose watchword was anonymity, the Director was remarkably accident prone. A walking target might be a better description.

Lingering over the third print, a fully frontal
self-portrait
of Maria, he cast a critical eye over it.

‘It really is extraordinary the progress that has been made with the camera side of mobile phones,’ he said. ‘The improvement in definition from even a year ago is truly amazing. Take this one of your
petite amie
. You can see every detail of her anatomy as plain as a pikestaff.’