Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines (6 page)

‘That very same evening, when I found myself one of a party of twelve at dinner, I had a strange experience. In the beginning Chavignol was at one end of the table, his wife at the other.

‘Early in the meal the discussion became rather heated on the subject of Fusion cooking. It began with the first course, which was
grenouilles
in
wonton
soup. I had no quarrel with the freshness of the frog’s legs. As one of the other guests, an Englishman, remarked – they were so fresh they were practically doing the breast stroke.’

‘
Les Anglais
have a bizarre sense of humour,
Monsieur
. They find it hard to take anything seriously. One has to admire them.’

Monsieur Leclerq brushed the interruption to one side. ‘Nor could I find fault with the cooking. It was simply that it was a clash of cultures and against many of the
principles
we hold dear in
Le Guide
. It was not for nothing that our Founder decided to use the symbol of a Stock Pot rather than a wok as a sign of excellence.

‘Much as I admired the skill which went into the dish, it is at such times that I fear for the future of France. Why do we award Stock Pots, if not for the appreciation of French food? If I say the words
boudin noir
, Aristide, what name springs to mind?’

‘Dijon,
Monsieur
. It is near there that the annual sausage festival takes place.’

‘Exactly. Our own symbol, the humble
escargot
, evokes a similar response. Mention it and one immediately thinks 
of Martigny and their annual snail Festival.’

‘Where else,
Monsieur
?’

‘By the same token, I shudder to think what the
members
of the
Confrérie des Taste Cuisses de Grenouilles de Vittel
would have to say about a dish which consisted of frogs legs in Chinese soup. I’m afraid I became rather heated on the subject.

‘However, things calmed down and by the time we reached the fromage stage, it was suggested – I think by Madame Chavignol herself – that we should all change places in order to get to know each other better. Little did I guess what was in her mind!

‘Soon after we resumed eating I was talking to a lady on my right who worked for the Banque de France – we were discussing the state of the economy, about which, I have to say, she seemed remarkably ignorant – when I felt
something
crawling up the inside of my right leg. I daresay you have heard of people playing what is known in some
circles
as
faire du pied
?’

‘It is a game for two, played beneath the table,
Monsieur
. I believe the English call it footsie.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. It is yet another side to
les Anglais
. They equate everything in terms of sport. But this was something else again. Whatever it was, it moved in snake-like fashion, slowly and inexorably up the inside of my leg until it could go no further. It was only then, when it began to wiggle, that I realised it was a toe. I will leave you to guess the sex.’

‘Was it a digit of the female persuasion,
Monsieur
?’

‘It was, and it needed very little persuading.’

‘The big one?’

‘The size is immaterial, Pamplemousse. Although I have to admit that by then whoever it belonged to must have realised it hadn’t had as far to travel as she might have 
anticipated, and the distance was getting less with every passing moment. I hesitate to say it had been met halfway, but it had, metaphorically speaking, hit the buffers.’

Monsieur Leclercq paused for a moment to mop his brow. There was the sound of lapping water as Pommes Frites, who had been hanging on the Director’s every word and gesture, made the most of the opportunity.

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his boss. It must be costing him dearly to bare his soul in this way.

‘I know what you are thinking, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘You are thinking if this ever gets out the
reputation
of
Le Guide
will plummet.’

It was, in fact, the last thing on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind, but he could see why the Director might be worried. A scandal could have severe
repercussions
in financial circles.

‘By then I had quite lost the thread of the conversation with the lady from the bank. I must have been sweating like a pig, for I remember her asking me if I was feeling unwell.

‘I looked around the table and by process of elimination decided that even though Madame Chavignol was engaged in animated conversation with her neighbours on either side, the foot could only belong to her. No one else at the table had legs that long and even she must have been stretching hers to their fullest extent.

‘Shortly afterwards, a second
pied
began to make its presence felt. Having established a foothold as it were, it set about manoeuvring my left leg into a complimentary position on her side of the table. And there it stayed, locked in a vicelike grip between her thighs for the rest of the meal.

‘When we eventually rose there was a thud and I realised my shoe had become detached. Fortunately I had 
the presence of mind to discard its companion, otherwise my limp might have given the game away.

‘Worse was to follow. My wife was taking a stroll in the garden with one of the other guests, and I had just asked Madame Chavignol if she had read any good books lately – one has to keep up the charade in these situations, when she took me by the arm and led me towards some kind of outbuilding clearly reserved for the laundering of
garments
– there was a distinct odour of disinfectant in the air; it quite negated the smell of the scented candles
outside
. As we entered I detected the sound of machinery. She appeared to be nervous. On the way there she kept
looking
at her watch.

‘When I complained that the smell was giving me a headache she produced a tablet from a gold locket she wore round her neck. She said it would do me the world of good.’

‘Do you know what it was?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘It had a strange name. Rather like that famous American waterfall – Niagara…’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director. For all his worldliness, he had moments of quite breathtaking naivety.

‘And you took it,
Monsieur
?’

‘Of course. I could hardly refuse. In fact, she gave me three. I must confess I sensed a certain amount of
impatience
on her part. They proved most efficacious. Almost immediately I began to feel better.

‘It was at that point that she suddenly began uttering cries of ‘
Vite! Vite
!’ Seating herself on one of the machines, she kicked a box into place by my feet and drew me towards her. I felt her legs encircle my body. Strictly between ourselves, Aristide, I can hardly claim it was an 
unpleasant sensation. It was also considerably enhanced by the soft vibration of the machine itself. But that was as far as it went until suddenly, almost as though it had taken on a life of its own and had become imbued with the
spirit
of the occasion, the motor sprang into life. The speed increased some tenfold. It was like being in a ship at sea in a severe gale.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a whistle. ‘It sounds as though it could have gone into the spin-drying mode,
Monsieur
. At such times washing machines can reach a speed of anything up to two thousand revs a minute. They sound like an aeroplane about to take off.’

Privately he couldn’t help but admire Madame Chavignol’s split second timing. It was no wonder she had kept on looking at her watch.

‘By that time two revs would have been more than
sufficient
,’ said the Director feelingly. ‘I had to hold on to Madame Chavignol for dear life! Just at the
moment critique
there was a blinding flash. At first I thought the machine had given up under the strain, then I realised it was
someone
with a camera. It was
coitus interruptus
with a vengeance!’

‘These things happen,
Monsieur
.’

‘They may well happen to you, Pamplemousse, but I have certainly never experienced anything like it either before or since. I tell you, it is one thing talking about it in the cold light of day, but it was quite another matter on a sultry autumn evening in the 7th
arrondissement
.

‘It is an old saying but a true one, Aristide, “Never choose your women or your linen by candlelight”.

‘However, that is not the worst of the story. A few days later I received a bombshell in the mail. There was no note, just a photograph. Fortunately Chantal didn’t open it, for I need hardly tell you what it depicted. 

‘My initial reaction was that it was a kind thought on the part of Madame Chavignol, but when I visited her and asked for the return of the negative she was a different person to the one who had unburdened herself to me only a few days before.

‘Do you know what she said?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head, although he had a shrewd idea.

‘“You men are all the same. You and all the others.” She even had the gall to laugh in my face and point towards the stairs. From all she said, I strongly suspect my picture is not the only one she has there. My guess would be that she keeps them in her boudoir. Doubtless in a safe.’

‘
Alors
!’

The Director shuddered. ‘
Alors
! is right, Aristide.’

‘You mentioned earlier about running an idea up the flagpole,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, breaking the long silence. ‘If there is anything I can do…’

Monsieur Leclercq’s face cleared. As if by magic the lines disappeared from his face as he rose and
circumnavigated
the desk.

‘I knew I could rely on you, Aristide!’ he exclaimed. ‘You have never let me down yet.’

That hadn’t been quite what Monsieur Pamplemousse meant. He had a distinct feeling of impending doom.

‘I want the negative back,’ continued the Director. ‘And I want it back along with any other prints before the police get there.

‘Inevitably, given the circumstances, they will be going through Chavignol’s past life looking for clues as to who might be responsible for his murder. They will leave no stone unturned. Papers will be inspected, letters perused, photographs unearthed, fingers will be pointed…

‘You, of all people, Pamplemousse, should know that.’ 

‘I understand what you are saying,
Monsieur
. But I don’t see how I can possibly help.’

‘It is perfectly simple, Aristide. All you need do is find the person responsible for the demise of Monsieur Chavignol and the police will consider the matter closed. Then you will be able to break into the safe at your leisure.’

It was Monsieur Pamplemousse’s turn to clutch at straws. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘my services are already bespoke. I have received an offer from a well-known
journal
.’

‘No man can serve two masters, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq severely. ‘It is written in the scriptures: Matthew 6:24.’

That answered the question. Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to suggest that at the time of his writing the scriptures, probably laboriously carving them in stone, Matthew wasn’t working for
Le Guide
, nor in all
probability
had he ever met anyone quite like the Director, but clearly the subject was not up for discussion.

Monsieur Leclercq rose to his feet. ‘I was thinking on the way in,’ he continued, ‘the whole sorry affair must have been a shock for Pommes Frites too… seeing you on the screen like that. Your wife was telling me all about it. It appears he thought you were trapped somewhere inside the receiver. I suggest you need to spend some quality time with him and I can think of no better way of making a start than the two of you taking a quiet stroll and
offering
your condolences to Madame Chavignol. At the same time you can familiarise yourself with the premises,
perhaps
picking up a few clues while you are there.’

Seeing the look on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face, the Director clasped his shoulder.

‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that given the presence of the 
boxes in the laundry room, and the expert way in which Madame Chavignol manoeuvred the appropriate one into position, she’d had plenty of practice at estimating her
victim’s
measurements over the years. The contents of her safe, if that is indeed where the photographs are kept, could rock the establishment to its very foundations.

‘I know this is supposed to be your week off, Aristide, but remember this: you are not doing it simply as a favour to me, you will also be doing it for France. It will not go unnoticed I can assure you.’

Short of joining Monsieur Leclercq in singing the national anthem, there was really nothing more to be said.

‘I would come with you, Aristide, but…’

But you can’t face seeing her again in the cold light of day, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘…I have another commitment,’ continued the Director, as though reading his thoughts. ‘Duty calls, I am afraid.’

On the way out of the building Monsieur Pamplemousse met Véronique coming in. She had with her a carrier bag imprinted with the insignia of a
well-known
fashion designer.

‘Cheer up,’ she said. ‘And take care. I wouldn’t like you to end up in Madame Chavignol’s safe along with all the others.’

Truly a man had no secrets from his secretary, even if there were times when he did have to pay dearly for the privilege. There was a price for everything in this world.

It was past midday before Monsieur Pamplemousse found the address the Director had given him.

Within sight of the top of the Eiffel Tower and yet to all intents and purposes a million miles away, it was typical of that part of Paris where ministries, museums and
foreign
embassies proliferate to such an extent that a casual passer by might be forgiven for thinking noone actually lived there.

Yet that was far from being the case. Behind forbidding entrances all over the 7th there lay a closed world of ancient homes, former mansions, eighteenth century
hôtels
, and secret gardens; a throwback to the days of Napoleon, who had preserved the area partly in
celebration
of his military victories, but also with an eye to
feathering
his own nest by creating a new nobility under the guise of preserving continuity. Books galore had been written about them, but unless you happened to strike lucky and be passing by when their doors were open to allow passage in or out, or had the kind of wealth that opened them for you, few revealed themselves to strangers.

He was about to make use of a heraldic knocker on a pair of heavy oak doors in a wall not far from the Basilique Sainte-Clotilde, when he noticed a discreet video
entryphone
let into the stonework to one side. Pressing a button elicited an almost immediate response.

After a slight pause while whoever was at the other end digested his name and business, no doubt at the same time studying the card he held up to the lens (he purposely 
made sure his thumb covered any mention of
Le Guide
), a voice asked him to wait. Some half a minute or so passed before a buzzer sounded. It was followed by a muffled click from behind the nearest of the two doors.

Signalling Pommes Frites to follow, Monsieur Pamplemousse pushed open a smaller inset door and went in. He almost expected to be greeted by a footman in full livery. Instead, as the door automatically closed behind them, another opened on the far side of a cobbled courtyard and a very small Asian in a white jacket emerged, beckoning them forward. He looked like the actor Peter Lorre in an early Mr. Moto film.

Casting his eyes around as he went, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced up at the building. It was more like a country mansion than a town house: a well
protected
one at that! High up on the walls, strategically placed CCTV cameras covered the area he was in, leaving him feeling naked and vulnerable. The upper windows were protected by white shutters, whilst those on the ground floor had stout metal grills.

To the left of the house there was a stable-block garage. The row of steel up-and-over doors was shut, as was another door, presumably a tradesman’s entrance, in a wall between the two buildings. The Facel Vega he had seen standing outside the studios the night before was parked alongside it. Someone must have moved fast. Perhaps they needed the space.

In passing he seized the opportunity to take a closer look. Only one hundred and fifty-two had been built in the three years before the company went into liquidation and since most of them went for export he might never see another. Comparing it to his own
Deux Chevaux
was like comparing chalk and cheese. Nearly four million of the latter had been made. 

The Excellence had an American Chrysler V8 6.3 litre engine, and with its armchair type front seat it was
nothing
short of decadence on wheels; for most of its life, the 2CV – a deckchair on wheels as some people called it – had been propelled by a simple 375cc engine. The one thing they had in common was that they were both products of the drawing board and both were idiosyncratic. At least his car was easy to climb in and out of; the Excellence with its pillarless construction might be sexy, but its doors had acquired an unhappy reputation for occasionally staying firmly shut when you wanted to get out.

As he neared the main entrance to the house he noted the front door was as solid as those at the main gate. There would be no breaking through its panels in a hurry. Removing his coat before entering he had a fleeting glimpse of welded security pins on the inward opening hinges.

One way and another, he knew all he wished to know for the time being. The 7th had a reputation for being the most closely guarded
arrondissement
in Paris; there were gendarmes everywhere. Jules Romain had hit the nail on the head when he called it “a capital within a capital”. To add so much security on top of what already existed seemed an unnecessary gilding of the lily; a belt and braces operation, but no doubt the Chavignols had their reasons.

While the Japanese manservant relieved him of his coat, executing a series of bows as he backed away, a woman he took to be Madame Chavignol appeared further down the hall. Glancing briefly at a small pile of unopened letters on a table as she passed, she came forward to greet him, hand outstretched.

‘Monsieur Pamplemousse. It is kind of you to come. I hadn’t expected…’ 

‘It was the least I could do.’

‘But so soon…’

Her hand felt cold rather than cool. She held on to his for a fraction of a second longer than seemed necessary while she scrutinised him. Then, letting go, she turned and motioned him to follow. He couldn’t help thinking that apart from dark glasses there was no question of her being in deep mourning.

Nor was the flow of inconsequential chatter she kept up what he would have expected from a person in a state of shock. Or, perhaps it was. Perhaps he was doing her an injustice and it was some kind of defence mechanism at work.

All the same, after the Director’s graphic revelations he was prepared for almost anything.

From the length of her elegantly cut dark hair, he guessed she must be still in her early thirties. She was wearing a white shirt and black trousers – with very little, if anything, underneath either if he was any judge in the matter. The rest was a model of expensive understatement: Hermès belt, black suede mules; silver earrings, each with a single diamond set in the middle; she was coolness
personified
. A white gold brooch and a white gold Cartier wrist watch completed the ensemble.

Although black predominated, it wasn’t exactly widow’s weeds.

He caught a whiff of perfume. Expensively discreet would have been a fair description. And yet, he couldn’t help being aware of something else over-riding it;
something
much more mundane and very familiar. So familiar he couldn’t immediately put a name to it. Sandalwood? No – simpler than that. Almonds? He had almonds on the brain.

Pommes Frites obviously noticed it too. Although,
having
 
registered it, he kept his thoughts to himself for the time being.

Nor could it be said that her late husband was into counting his Euros. As she led the way towards the rear of the house by way of an enormous lounge, he took stock of his surroundings. At some time the room they were
passing
through had been stripped, a purist might say
vandalised
, of what must once have been all the trappings of an ornately furnished salon. The walls had the kind of sheen that only came from many applications of paint. The floor had been re-laid with hardwood, polished until you could see your face in it.

Only the ceiling decorations had been left intact.

Apart from the fact that there seemed to be two of everything, it reminded him of a Philippe Starck
exhibition
he and Doucette had once been to see.

There were two enormous sofas – each large enough to seat a whole family; two mammoth plasma screen
television
sets; two chandeliers; two harps! What would anyone want with two harps? Madame Chavignol didn’t look the sort of person who would spend the long winter evenings perfecting her
arpeggios
.

There were flowers everywhere: freshly cut lilies and iris in enormous vases; the kind of displays you normally only came across in three Stock Pot restaurants, or on yachts in the south of France during the season. A Hermès Birkin handbag left carelessly open on a table was
something
more than a fashion statement.

Abstract paintings dotted the walls. A brief glance was enough. He knew what he liked, and on the whole it
didn’t
extend to large pieces of canvas that looked as though a child had ridden across them on its tricycle, having first passed through several trays of primary coloured paint. Many of them were unframed, although they had
probably
 
cost the earth.

On a corner table just inside the door there was a
sprinkling
of statuettes and silver cups, and on the wall behind it a number of framed certificates. Presumably they all belonged to Monsieur Chavignol; show biz mementos. Somehow they summed everything up.

It was all too perfect and unlived in, with not a sign of a book anywhere; sad in its way, as though the house and its contents had been left in the hands of a designer and the table was the only concession he had allowed the owner for his personal effects.

Bringing up the rear and clearly feeling in need of a rest after their long walk, Pommes Frites paused by a thick pile rug and eyed it hopefully.

Catching sight of him out of the corner of her eye, Madame Chavignol broke off for a moment. ‘Your dog looks thirsty. Does he prefer still or sparkling water?’

‘Given the choice, he prefers still.’

‘I will have Yin him bring some Evian.’

Motioning Pommes Frites to remain where he was, Monsieur Pamplemousse followed her out onto a patio which at first sight was as immaculately tidy as the inside of the house. Concealed lamps dotted around the
perimeter
no doubt doubled as either heat, or movement-
sensitive
security lights by night. Through thick glass portholes let into the paving he could see an underground
swimming
pool, bathed in blue light.

The scene beyond them was like a stage set, probably the work of the same interior designer. There was hardly a leaf out of place. The elegance of it all made his own herb collection seem very small fry, but at least his was a
hands-on
operation.

He began to wish he had worn another suit, but then Monsieur Leclercq hadn’t given him the opportunity to go 
home and change.

‘How strange that my husband should die in your arms,’ said Madame Chavignol. ‘It must have been a shock to you.’

‘You saw it happen?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

She nodded. ‘Normally I would have been in the studio, but last night I chose to stay at home and watched it all on television instead. I don’t know if that made it worse – my not being there – but even if I had been I couldn’t have done anything. It was all over so quickly. It’s just… I know I shall always regret not being with him at the end.’

Seating herself in a white painted lounge seat with matching cushions, she motioned him towards a more
formal
upright chair facing her. Between the two of them, but slightly to one side, there was a slatted garden table.

As Monsieur Pamplemousse made himself comfortable he noticed two champagne glasses, one of which was still half full.

‘Forgive me. Have I called at an inconvenient moment?’

‘Not at all.’ She brushed his protest to one side. ‘It was all so sudden… the staff are shattered, of course. But they are carrying on as normal. Claude… my husband and I always tried to have lunch together. It was part of our
routine
.’

Reaching down, she picked up a telephone, put through the order for Pommes Frites’ water, then paused. ‘In fact…’ she looked at her watch, ‘since it is almost twelve-thirty, perhaps you will do me the honour of joining me?’

It wasn’t what he had bargained on, but obviously it hadn’t occurred to her that he might refuse. It wasn’t so much an invitation as a command.

‘I imagine the police have been in touch with you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as she replaced the receiver.

‘They were here last night and again this morning. They 
are awaiting the report of the autopsy. Until that is done I can’t begin to make arrangements with a funeral director. But there seems little doubt as to the cause. They say it was cyanide.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered whether he should mention the offending oyster shell, but decided to play it by ear.

‘And you have no idea how it came about – or who might have been responsible?’

Madame Chavignol shook her head. ‘None. Claude had his enemies, of course. Who doesn’t? That is especially true if you happen to be in the public eye. But as for
deliberately
poisoning him…’

She waited a moment or two while the manservant appeared, filled both the glasses from a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal and began setting the table for two;
stainless
steel place mats – again in the shape of an interlocking double C – Christofle cutlery, Riedel glasses.

Monsieur Pamplemousse took the opportunity to take a closer look at the garden. Beyond the patio, sunlight
filtered
through the trees, illuminating a mixture of styles: freshly raked gravel paths, their curves contrasting with the straight lines of others made of old stone paving; little nooks and crannies housing unrestrained shrubs
surrounded
by clipped box hedging; old shrub roses and clematis planted alongside more formal beds.

Barely audible soft music came from hidden
loudspeakers
. Fish played in a pool watched over by a pair of bronze herons. Other pieces of sculpture were dotted around; a rotunda here, a domed arbour made of distressed pinewood there.

The whole was surrounded by ancient ivy-covered stone walls, recessed in places for ornaments. From where he was sitting it was hard to tell what lay immediately 
behind them.

One thing was certain. The Director had a problem on his hands if he was hoping to get his negatives back by devious means. The place was like a fortress.

‘I still think it is an extraordinary coincidence that you should be at the studio yesterday evening,’ said Madame Chavignol when they were alone again. ‘Do you often go?’