Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (21 page)

‘I can picture it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Rambaud’s window box is his pride and joy.’

‘Taken by humans or other animals, Aldrin causes dizziness, vomiting, convulsions, respiratory failure.
It would have been a nasty way to go.

‘What bothers me, is according to my information, it is completely odourless, so …’

‘… what made Pommes Frites reject the meat?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Bloodhounds are good at putting two and two together,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘My guess is he must have smelt the person who tampered with it. And that person had to be Dubois. He smelt a rat in more ways than one.’

‘Sorry I asked,’ said Jacques.

‘For a brief while, Pommes Frites’ future hung in the balance; mine too. But when it was discovered how much poison had been injected into the beef everyone changed their tune.’

‘A useful
camarade
to have about the house.’ Jacques gazed down at the recumbent form under the table.

‘He saved my life,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply.

‘That too,’ said Jacques. ‘I wonder what he would have done if he’d been human?’

‘Changed his butcher, I expect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Pommes Frites has a refreshingly uncomplicated approach to life. He sees things strictly in terms of black and white; right and wrong.’

‘As for Maria,’ said Jacques. ‘She seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. I take it you have heard nothing more from her?’

‘Well, yes and no,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Jacques downed his wine. ‘Come on, Aristide … out with it. Between friends and these four walls …’

By way of an answer, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed a small package from his pocket and placed it on the table.

‘Going back to Christmas,’ he said, ‘just before Twelfth night, a parcel containing a small cake arrived at Monsieur Leclercq’s office.’

‘
Galette
de Roi
!’ Jacques made a face. ‘I know it’s traditional, but I can’t stand frangipane and it’s usually full of it. As for those little statue things people put inside them – I once nearly broke a tooth on one.’

‘
Fèves
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I thought they were always slipped into the cake somewhere near the edge so that wouldn’t happen.’

‘So did I,’ said Jacques ruefully. ‘Blame the wife. Things weren’t too good back at the works in those days. Don’t say you’ve brought me a slice.’

‘Again, it’s a case of yes and no.’

Unwrapping the parcel, Monsieur Pamplemousse revealed the end of a tie. Inside it was a small porcelain figurine.

‘Monsieur Leclercq has entrusted me with this for the time being. He doesn’t want it left lying around in case it gets into the wrong hands. Madame Leclercq’s,
par exemple
.’

Jacques examined the object. ‘I can’t say I blame him.’ Lowering his voice, he looked around to make sure no one else was watching. ‘I don’t know about the girl who’s dressed up as a nun – she looks a pretty little
thing, but the guy fumbling with her zip is the spitting image of your boss. I’ve seen porno
fèves
advertised on a website – Kama Sutra pigs … rabbits … that kind of thing, but this one beats them all. It looks as though it must have been specially made.’

‘Whoever sent it probably had a lot of photo references to help them,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘The parcel was postmarked Sicily. I strongly suspect Uncle Caputo has taken Maria on board as well. As I said earlier, he respects genuine talent when he sees it and he hates letting it go to waste.’

‘Our loss could be Sicily’s gain …’ said Jacques.

‘It is what Monsieur Leclercq calls an elegant solution.’

‘That depends where you are sitting,’ said Jacques. ‘Elegant, but hardly Kosher. All the same, it saves on paper-work …’

‘Lawyer’s fees too,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘At the end of the day, they are the only ones who grow fat out of other people’s misfortunes.’

Jacques pushed his chair way from the table. ‘Thanks for the meal. Some of us have to get back to work.’

‘All good things …’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As for this restaurant. It doesn’t know yet, so don’t breathe a word, but they are in line to receive a Stock Pot. This meal was by way of a final check-up, courtesy of
Le Guide
.’

‘I thought you said it was your treat.’

‘I didn’t say I was paying. I simply said you could
choose the restaurant, and the wine, of course. Incidentally, I admire your choice: Beaune Clos de Roi from Tollot-Beaut was a perfect accompaniment to the
boeuf en croute
.’

‘You don’t want an assistant with a talent for this kind of thing, do you?’ asked Jacques. ‘Clean-living, able to carry your bags, grovel when required, fond of travel, not frightened of long hours …’

‘If you hear of anyone like that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘give me a ring. And thank you again for all your help. Keep the
fève
– you can change it for a free copy of
Le Guide
when it comes out.’

Calling for the bill, he waited until they were out in the street before reaching for his mobile. There was one other important call he had to make.

‘Congratulations,’ said Mr Pickering when he had finished. ‘Most satisfactory.

But if you don’t mind my saying so, it does sound a very French solution.’

‘With Italian overtones,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Let us not forget that. One should always give credit where credit is due.’

Glancing down as he said goodbye, he could have sworn Pommes Frites was smiling to himself, but then, he often did at the end of a case.

Read on for an extract from

Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint
,

the next book in Michael Bond’s

Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites series …

Monsieur Pamplemousse
and the Carbon Footprint

M
ICHAEL
B
OND

Véronique put a finger to her lips before gently opening the door. ‘If I were you,’ she whispered, ‘I would keep it low key. We’re a bit edgy today …’

Murmuring his thanks, Monsieur Pamplemousse signalled Pommes Frites to follow on behind as they tiptoed past the Director’s secretary into the Holy of Holies.

Glancing quickly round the room, he seated himself in a chair standing ready and waiting opposite Monsieur Leclercq’s vast desk. Pommes Frites, meanwhile, hastened to make himself comfortable on the deep pile carpet at his feet.

Clearly, Véronique had not been exaggerating. All the signs suggested that if anything she was understating the situation.

Normally a model of sartorial elegance, the Head of France’s premier gastronomic guide looked in a sorry
state; his Marcel Lassance tie hung loose around his neck, the jacket of his André Bardot suit was draped higgledy-piggledy over the back of a chair, and although one sleeve of the Eglé bespoke shirt was neatly rolled back above his elbow, the other looked as though it might have been involved in a close encounter with a lawnmower … perhaps while adjusting the blades, although that was highly improbable.

Unlike the past President of France, Monsieur Jacques Chirac, who was credited with having once operated a forklift truck in an American brewery following a spell at Harvard University, Monsieur Pamplemousse doubted if the Director had ever got his hands dirty in the whole of his life. The generally accepted opinion was that he probably laid out the ground rules at an early age; demonstrating clearly to all and sundry that even such mundane tasks as changing a typewriter ribbon were beyond his powers, making sure that letters dictated during the course of the day arrived without fail on his desk ready for signing at the appointed time that same afternoon. The licking of envelopes would have been someone else’s responsibility, thus allowing his taste buds to remain unsullied by close contact with gum mucilage.

Discretion being the better part of valour, it was probably far better to hold his fire until a suitable moment arose. After what seemed like an eternity, and aware of a certain restiveness at his feet, he could stand it no longer.

‘You sent for us, Monsieur?’ he ventured.

‘Yes, yes, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director distantly. ‘But it was you I wished to have words with first of all.’

Pausing as he riffled through the pile of papers, he glanced pointedly at the figure on the floor.

‘Would you prefer it if Pommes Frites waited outside?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘No, no,’ said Monsieur Leclercq gruffly. ‘It’s just that … well, to put it bluntly, Aristide, you are rather earlier than I expected and I have important matters to discuss. My mind is in turmoil and it is hard to concentrate when your every move is subject to scrutiny by two pairs of eyes rather than one.’

Ever sensitive to the prevailing atmosphere, and sufficiently conversant with the use of certain key words, Pommes Frites settled down again and, with his tail at half-mast, pretended to busy himself with his ablutions, although clearly his heart wasn’t in it.

‘Your message sounded urgent,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That being the case, we came as quickly as we could. It just so happened the traffic lights were green all the way. Such a thing has never happened before.’

‘Aaah!’ His words fell on deaf ears as an exclamation from the Director indicated he had at long last found what he had been looking for.

He waved aloft a crumpled form between thumb and forefinger. ‘As you will doubtless remember, Pamplemousse, I recently issued a questionnaire to all members of staff.

‘I had in mind ascertaining their views on various matters of importance. It was all part of an exercise in reappraising our current position in this difficult world of ours. Running an operation the size of
Le Guide
is a costly exercise, and from time to time, in common with most large companies, we have to take stock of the most expensive item of all: namely, manpower. It was our accountants who first posed the question. Are we, they asked, always getting value for money from those who work in the field?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse essayed a non-committal response, wondering what could possibly be coming next and fearing the worst.

‘Cast your mind back,’ continued the Director, ‘and you may also recall the very first question on the list.’

‘As a member of France’s premier food guide, what are the three things uppermost in your mind at all times?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

In spite of himself, the Director looked impressed. ‘That is correct, Pamplemousse. Which makes your answer, “Sex, money, and still more sex,” singularly disappointing, even by present day standards.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. ‘But …’ half rising from his chair, he held out a free hand, ‘may I see that form, Monsieur?’

The Director smoothed the piece of paper carefully on a blotting pad before handing it over. ‘I must confess, I was so incensed by your answer I screwed it into a ball and threw it into the waste bin. Unfortunately, my hand was trembling so I missed the target and it
landed in a vase of flowers. The cleaning lady retrieved it for me later that day and left it on my desk to dry.’

‘Where would we be without the cleaning ladies of this world?’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse, sinking back into his chair. ‘Hortense is a treasure and no mistake.’

‘Is that her name?’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Speaking from experience,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, savouring a minor victory, ‘I venture to suggest the answer which so upset you probably reflects the view of the vast majority of the French population, the younger ones in particular. It is a characteristic of our nation that its citizens take the business of living and all its many and varied ramifications seriously.’

Holding the paper up to the light, he studied it carefully. ‘Having said that, I must inform Monsieur that this is not my handwriting …’

‘Not your handwriting, Pamplemousse?’ boomed the Director. ‘If it is not your handwriting, then how did it come to grace a form which has your name at the top?’

‘That,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse grimly, ‘is a question I shall address as soon as possible.’

A joke was a joke, but there were limits. He strongly suspected Glandier. The schoolboy in him was never far away. Blessed with a distorted sense of humour, his colleague’s prowess as a performer of conjuring tricks at staff parties all too often extended itself to other forms
of trickery when he was at a loose end.

‘I accept what you say, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘albeit with a certain amount of reluctance.’

‘It is an area where there are those who say I am accident prone,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Prone you may be while it is happening, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq sternly, ‘but more often than not I fear it is no accident.

‘That is why I fell victim to a jest that was in very poor taste. I am relieved to hear my faith in you is not entirely misplaced. The correct answer, as I am sure you will agree, is first and foremost the well-being of
Le Guide
, closely followed by carbon footprints and global warming.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse remained silent. He wondered how many of his colleagues lived up to such high ideals. As ever, the Director was out of touch with reality. Speaking personally, pleased though he was to know Monsieur Leclercq’s faith in him had been restored, he could barely lay claim to always observing the first item on the list, let alone the other two.

‘The phrase “carbon footprint” does seem to be on everybody’s lips these days,’ he said, non-committally. ‘Next year it will doubtless be something else. These things tend to have a limited shelf life. The journals seize on whatever is currently in vogue and work it to death.’

‘All creatures, no matter what their size, leave a carbon footprint,’ said Monsieur Leclercq reprovingly. ‘Whether by accident or design, it is a God-given fact
of life and it is something that will not change. One must never forget that, Aristide.

‘Centipedes, ants, earwigs, even the humble escargot … they all have their place in the scheme of things. They arrive on this earth hard-wired from the word go.’

Picking up on the phrase ‘hard-wired’, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. The words had a definite transatlantic ring to them. It suggested Monsieur Leclercq had just returned from one of his periodic trips to the United States. They often boded ill.

‘I grant you,’ continued the Director, ‘that given its overall dimensions in terms of height, length and width, an escargot’s carbon footprint alongside that of, say, an elephant, is hard to evaluate.’

Pausing to sweep the pile of papers to one side, he leant back in his chair.

‘However, it brings me to another matter currently exercising my mind, and which happens to be one of the reasons why I summoned you here today.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse listened with only half an ear.
Le Guide’s
logo – two escargots rampant – was a constantly recurring concern of the Director and there was little more he could contribute to the subject. Leaving aside the use of the words ‘hard-wired’, the phrase ‘
one
of the reasons’ was also unsettling. It sounded as though there might be a whole catalogue of them.

Monsieur Leclercq picked up a silver paperweight cast in the shape of the subject under discussion.

‘Apart from the fact that, strictly speaking, our logo is no longer politically correct, in many respects it no longer reflects the kind of dynamic image we need to project in this day and age, when the emphasis everywhere is on speed. This is particularly true when it comes to our readers on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. In my experience, they are mostly blind to the humble
helix pomotia’s
virtues as a delicacy. Following considerable research, I have yet to see escargot
s
feature on any American menu.

‘However, that is by the by. The inescapable truth is that sales of
Le Guide
in the United States of America have plummeted over the past year.’

To prove his point he held up a graph showing a long red line which not only dipped alarmingly as it neared the right-hand edge of the paper, but disappeared entirely before reaching it.

‘We are not alone, of course. Michelin have had their problems too, although they are fighting back. As you know, their logo has recently been updated. Monsieur Bibendum has shed a roll of fat and is looking all the better for it. He is now a leaner, fitter image of his former roly-poly self; and in so doing he has become an example to us all.’

‘That kind of thing can backfire,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘My understanding is that many people in America set great store by rolls of fat. They call them “love handles”.’

‘Is that so, Pamplemousse?’ said the Director distastefully. ‘I am happy to take your word for it.

‘Be that as it may, our chief rival in the United States is a publication called
Zagat
, a guide that relies for its information on reports sent in by readers, who offer up their experiences when dining out. Given that more often than not they dwell on the size and quantity of fried potatoes, it is little wonder many of them have a weight problem.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his pulse begin to quicken. Could it be that the Director was dangling a promotional carrot before his eyes? Head of the longmooted American office, perhaps?

There would be snags, of course, but it was an exciting prospect. Pommes Frites would probably need to have a chip listing all his relevant details implanted somewhere or other on his person before being allowed into the country … that could be why the Director was choosing his words with care. He would know, of course, that Monsieur Pamplemousse would never contemplate going to America without him. It must also be the reason why he had been invited along to the meeting.

That apart, he wasn’t at all sure how his wife would take the news. Knowing Doucette, she would be worried about what to wear for a start.

He tried dipping his toes into the water. ‘For some while now Pommes Frites and I have been metaphorically girding our respective loins ready for our next assignment …’ he began, hastily cutting short what he had been about to say as he realised the Director was still dwelling on the subject of snails.

‘I fear the worst, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Storm clouds are already gathering on the horizon for the gastropods of this world.’

‘They come ready equipped to withstand any amount of sudden downpours,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘It is not that aspect of it which bothers me,’ said the Director. ‘It is our image.’

‘In that case,’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘could we not generate a little more publicity? A spectacular win in the field of international sport, perhaps? In
Grande-Bretagne
they hold an annual World Championship Race for snails. Last year’s winner completed the 33cm course in 2 minutes 49 seconds and won a tankard full of lettuce leaves.’

‘Hardly headline news, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq dubiously. ‘In the field of sport it hardly ranks alongside the furore that accompanied the first 4-minute mile.

‘Besides, a lot can happen to an escargot even in that short distance. A passing blackbird could swoop down and make off with it long before it crossed the finishing line, and then where would we be?

‘All that apart, my understanding is that supplies are dwindling. Many now come from as far away as Bulgaria. The climate changes we have been experiencing of late do nothing to help matters. The winters last much longer and they are growing colder. Escargots take anything up to six hours to copulate and even then it is very much a hit and miss affair.’

‘I suppose,’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘for an
escargot, life is a matter of swings and roundabouts. Could we not use science to help them along? A little Viagra sprinkled on their lettuce leaves, perhaps?’

‘I think not.’ The Director gave a shudder. ‘Who knows what might be unleashed?’

‘In that case, perhaps it is time we changed our logo?’

‘Change our logo?’ boomed the Director. ‘That is out of the question. Our Founder set great store by it. He would turn in his grave.’