Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines (13 page)

‘It was not for me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse stiffly.

Oscar gave him a wink. ‘That is what they all say.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stifled the reply he would have liked to make. It was hard to be cross with someone who remembered your name after the passage of so much time.

‘You were a trendsetter,
Monsieur
. For a time we had a big run on kennels. With some it was a case of the smaller the better. Others, like you, went for broke, but then
people
grew tired of them. You perhaps wish to replace it? I have a few of the deluxe models left. They come complete with a battery-operated video camera and a packet of assorted condoms…’

Anxious to change the drift of the conversation, Monsieur Pamplemousse opened the shop door and called for Pommes Frites. There was barely room for the two of them.

Oscar took the point. ‘My apologies,
Monsieur
.’

‘How is trade?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Oscar gave a non-committal shrug.

‘The death of Monsieur Chavignol hasn’t affected you?’ Again, it was a shot in the dark.

‘Chavignol? The television chef?’ Oscar eyed him
cautiously
. 
‘What made you ask that?’

‘I know his tastes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I know the kind of money he was prepared to spend. He would only go for the best.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ said Oscar. ‘As for business, it is as it has always been – swings and
roundabouts
. You lose some … you win some. Most of the time it is a matter of keeping one step ahead of the game. There is always a demand for something new. Since digital
cameras
came on the market nobody wants “private” film
processing
any more. They can watch everything on their own television screens as it happens. As for porno pics… it isn’t so much what people are doing to each other these days, it’s who’s doing what to whom.

‘Which reminds me. You were going to let me have some taken of you with those girls at the
Folies
– the ones that led to your being fired. How many girls was it? ‘Twenty-five?’

‘They were not
of
me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gruffly. ‘They were supposedly taken by me. And the number is immaterial. It was a set-up. As for my being fired because of it – I took early retirement.

‘Why am I here? It is because I am investigating Chavignol’s murder. You would do well to co-operate. I would like to know how long you have had dealings with him? What kind of products you have been supplying him with? In short, anything and everything you can tell me about him.
Par exemple
, has he ever been into selling you pictures?’

‘Not since the very beginning. In the early days, when he was still on tour, he used to send me photos from time to time. I think some of his assistants got more than they bargained for when they took the job. Folding themselves up when they were supposedly being sawn in two was the 
least of their problems.’

He pointed to a poster on the wall showing a younger Claude Chavignol. Dressed in top hat and tails, he looked the archetypal magician.

‘In the beginning he used to come in here occasionally. For minor items, you understand? Then, when he began to hit the high spots he switched to mail-order. As time went by he started looking for more exotic items … that was when he opened an account. He’s had one ever since.’

‘So there would be records…’

‘Records?’ Oscar looked pained.

‘What sort of things did he buy?’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Come with me and I will show you…’

Leaving Pommes Frites to guard the reception area, Monsieur Pamplemousse followed Oscar into the back of his shop. It was like entering a waxworks museum.

‘Inflatable nuns are the best-selling line, particularly those that come with, shall we say, rather more exotic optional extras than you might expect from someone who has recently taken the vow of chastity. Monsieur Chavignol favoured novices. I think perhaps he enjoyed picturing deflowering them before they had taken their finals. But he was not averse to the occasional Mother Superior.

‘English Headmistresses come a close second. Articulated nurses are coming up fast.’

‘Articulated nurses?’ Oscar made it sound like a horse race.

‘You can have them bending over while they are making the beds.’ He led the way through some bead curtains. ‘Monsieur Chavignol used to call this my Edith Cavell room. I don’t know why.’

It could have been a field hospital at the time of the 
Crimean War.

‘They have to stand up to a lot of hard wear.’ Oscar caught Monsieur Pamplemousse eyeing the selection of whips and scourges hanging from the walls.

‘What used to be known as the English disease is becoming more and more popular. Word gets around. Only this morning I had a big order in from Marseille of all places. That is like sending
foie gras
to Gascony.’

‘Nurse Cavell must be turning in her grave,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily. To have inspired Edith Piaf in the choice of a first name was one thing, but he doubted if she would appreciate having it coupled to Oscar’s flights of fancy.

‘She is someone you know?’ asked Oscar, with an eye to business. ‘You have her address?’

‘Edith Cavell,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘was an English nurse; a heroine of the First World War.’ His wave embraced the whole of the display. ‘Such things are
hardly
what she can have had in mind when she was
appointed
first matron of the Berkendael Institute in Brussels. While she was there she helped many wounded British, French and Belgian soldiers escape to the Netherlands. She ended up on October the 7th 1915 being shot by the Germans.’

‘Such erudition,’ said Oscar. ‘There is no doubt, Monsieur P. you were a great loss to the Force when you took early retirement. It serves them right.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse decided it was time to go. There was nothing more to be gained.

On their way back to the Boulevard de Clichy, Pommes Frites received an offer he clearly had no difficulty in refusing, this time from a woman standing outside a
massage
parlour. It was one more than his master had scored. Things were coming to a pretty pass. 

Having reached the Place Pigalle, Monsieur Pamplemousse mentally tossed a coin as whether or not to take the Montmartrobus home. There was one waiting at the terminus on the far side of the square.

Before he had a chance to reach a decision it moved off, so he decided instead to give Pommes Frites a treat, although in truth he didn’t fancy doing it the hard way himself; there would be 250 or more steps to climb if they went on foot.

Turning into the Rue de Steinkerque he found himself trapped behind a swarm of Japanese tourists also making their way up the hill, taking pictures as they went. Their eyes were firmly fixed on a white flag attached to the end of a pole up ahead and there was no getting past.

Finally, he managed to overtake the party when they paused in the Place Saint Pierre. Cameras whirred and clicked as they took pictures of the ancient carousel.

Bypassing a quartet outside the entrance to the
funicular
, doing their best for Vivaldi as they struggled to rise above the sound of the fairground organ, he saw there was an empty cabin. Hastily boarding it, he staked a claim on a vacant seat at the rear. With luck he would be on his way before anyone else got on.

Like everything else it had gone “state-of-the-art”. From being a twin track, counterbalance arrangement with one cab going up as the other one came down, it was now a funicular in name only, each car operating independently of the other. With automatic detectors controlling all the variables, such as the total weight of passengers, the
journey
time had been halved and the system was now able to carry up to 2000 passengers per hour, double the previous number.

The schoolboy in him was looking forward to the
experience
, and his heart sank when he saw the same white 
flag heading his way above the crowd surrounding the musicians.

Moments later his worst fears were realised. Cameras still clicking, the party of Japanese poured on.

Then, horror of horrors, the worst happened. Having automatically weighed the load and decided the full quota of passengers had been reached, a peremptory warning signal sounded and the doors of the cabin closed, leaving the tour leader stranded on the platform. He was fortunate not to have lost his pole. Cries of alarm went up from all around. It was as though an umbilical cord had been severed.

It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that in a way it was symbolic. Parallels could be drawn with the
Centre de Télévision et Ciné de la Butte
. They, too, had lost their “tour leader”; their star performer, the man who had made it all possible. He hoped the company would survive. It was a highly professional undertaking – a city within a city – and he respected professionalism. It would be a pity to see it fall by the wayside. The great problem of course would be in keeping highly paid staff productive. If they weren’t fully employed they would be on their way.

No sooner had they set off up the hill than his mobile rang.

‘Two things,’ said Jacques. ‘The date for the funeral has been fixed…’

‘Does that mean the autopsy has been completed?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to make himself heard above the hubbub.

‘Death has been certified as being due to cyanide
poisoning
. The funeral is tomorrow at 14.30. Cimetière Montmartre.’

‘So soon? That is not possible.’

‘All things are possible,’ said Jacques. He broke off. 
‘Where are you? Are you alright?’

‘I am far from alright,’ gasped Monsieur Pamplemousse.

The 40 second journey completed, he was caught on a tidal wave of anxious bodies as the doors opened and the passengers began making good their escape before
anything
more went wrong.

‘You had me worried for a moment,’ said Jacques when they made contact again. ‘It sounded like sale time at Galeries Lafayette.’

‘It was worse,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse with
feeling
. ‘Much worse.’ So much for Pommes Frites’ treat, and his own come to that.

‘Madame Chavignol has been pushing for it,’ continued Jacques, ‘and you know what that means. Surprise,
surprise
, the examining magistrate has agreed. He says that as there is no case to answer the funeral can go ahead.’

‘Is it official yet?’

‘No. They are trying to keep it as low-key as possible. Actually, between you and me, what he really said was: “Since we have no idea who did it and would rather not know, the sooner he is six feet under the better.”

‘Anyway, it means the house will be empty between say, 13.40 and – give or take a few minutes either way – say 15.30 to be on the safe side.’

‘How about the staff?’

‘The whole affair is by invitation only. The live-in ones – the chef and the manservant will be going. Any others are being giving the day off.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I asked one of them,’ said Jacques simply.

‘I’ve checked with Malfiltre. He is in town. I’ve told him to expect a call from you.’

‘
Merci beaucoup
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily. ‘So 
what is the second thing?’

‘My information is that unless some distant relative turns up at the last minute and contests the will,
everything
apart from a Facel Vega car goes to Madame Chavignol.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse absorbed the various bits of news as he reached the Place de Tertre, by now awash with tourists. A Montmartrobus – he wasn’t sure if it was the same one he had nearly caught – was forcing its way past, scattering the unwary right left and centre, much to their disgust. They looked as though they thought it had no right to be there at all. Jacques could have played his game for real.

‘Can I ring you back?’

‘I’m not going anywhere. Any developments your end?’

‘I tell you one thing,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I have a feeling Pommes Frites knows something we don’t. He is behaving very strangely.’

‘So what’s new?’ said Jacques gloomily.

Happy to be back at last after a rather longer morning walk than he was used to, Pommes Frites hurried on ahead of his master and paused outside the apartment block in order to mark his arrival home in time-honoured fashion and at the same time register his territorial rights for the benefit of any other dogs who happened to pass that way.

It being a regular habit, he allowed his gaze to wander and, happening to glance skywards, noticed two men making their way along the topmost balcony. They seemed to be carrying a heavy load between them and even as he watched, they stopped at a point immediately above the entrance to the building and began lifting
whatever
it was onto the railings.

For a brief moment the three legs supporting Pommes 
Frites’ weight remained rooted to the ground; the pose was so fixed the whole ensemble might well have been mistaken for yet another bizarre work by Jean Marais,
creator
of Marcel Aymé’s statue.

It was so striking, a passing tourist recorded the moment for posterity on his Instamatic, blissfully unaware as he went on his way that he was about to miss a photo opportunity that would have more than paid for his
holiday
.

Pommes Frites could have told him if he’d had the time. But he didn’t. It dawned on him that if he were to stand the remotest chance of saving his master from almost
certain
death speed was of the essence. That being so, he sprang into action.

The dull thud as Monsieur Pamplemousse hit the paving had barely died away when a second crash echoed round the square, sending sparrows, pigeons and other lesser forms of wildlife fleeing in all directions.

Any satisfaction Pommes Frites might have gained from a mission accomplished was offset by the fact that in falling his master appeared to have knocked himself out.

He gave the bit nearest to him a tentative lick and
having
savoured the result, gazed down at it with interest.