Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot (17 page)

Another spoonful of soup and he succumbed to temptation. There was a card from Doucette – a drawing of the Sacré Coeur – reminding him of someone’s birthday. He couldn’t make out the words in the muted lighting. Never mind, he would work it out later.

The thought occurred to him that Pommes Frites might be good at hunting truffles. He had a nose for scents.
Truffles might be just up his street. The
‘egregious
tuber
culum’
as Brillet-Savarin had called them; ‘a luxury of kept women’. Perhaps one day, if they found themselves in Périgord …

There was a telex from the Director. The one he had spoken of on the telephone. Short and to the point, it said:
CANCEL ORDER FOR
SOUFFLÉ SURPRISE
IMMEDIATELY
. The girl in charge of the telex machine at Les Cinq Parfaits must be wondering what was going on. He hoped she hadn’t relayed it to the kitchen first by mistake.

He picked up the envelope and opened it. It was a letter from Durelle. He skimmed through it quickly, then stopped halfway and began reading it again, much more slowly this time.

Merde!
It was not possible.

His
soupe
aux
truffes
noires
momentarily forgotten, Monsieur Pamplemousse read through the letter for a third time, still hardly able to believe his eyes.

‘Aristide, you old
maquereau
!’
it ran. ‘How did you know it was my fiftieth birthday? You really had me fooled. When your bottle arrived and I saw the label I thought it’s Aristide up to his tricks again. Trust Aristide to think of putting Pommes Frites’ specimen into a bottle labelled Château d’Yquem ’45. I even took it into the lab for analysis. Then when I opened it and discovered the truth I could hardly believe my eyes. Such wine! It was out of this world! If I had known I would have waited until you got back to Paris so that we could share it. I don’t know what I have done to deserve such riches, let alone how I can ever thank you, but I am working on the problem. Your friend, Raymonde.’

Sapristi!
He didn’t believe it. It had to be some kind of a joke.

Picking up Doucette’s card he held it up to the candle and reread the message on the back. The words confirmed what Durelle had said. It had been his fiftieth birthday.

He sat back in order to collect his scattered thoughts. He knew that he had taken the right bottle from the refrigerator. Or rather, to be pedantic (not to say Holmesian) about it, he knew he had taken the one which he’d thought
was the correct bottle, simply because it was where he had put it the night before. In his haste he hadn’t examined it closely. The answer must be that in checking the contents, something she would do every morning as a matter of routine in order to see what had been consumed, the room maid must have inadvertently swapped the bottles over.

A second, more sobering thought struck him; one which caused a slow smile to spread across his face as it sank in. If Durelle had been sent a genuine bottle of the ’45, then Pommes Frites’ sample must have gone back into stock when the second bottle was withdrawn. And if it had gone back into stock and there was only one other bottle left, then it was a fifty-fifty chance it would arrive in the restaurant at any moment.

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s smile grew wider. It would be rough justice if it did. He couldn’t think of a more suitable recipient than the odious character at present holding court. His only regret was that Pommes Frites wouldn’t be there to witness the event.

Polishing off the remains of his soup, he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, then leaned back in his chair, anxious not to miss a single moment. Mathematically it might not happen, but if there was any justice in the world then mathematics would fly out of the window.

He wasn’t a moment too soon. He had hardly settled himself before the
sommelier
appeared. Carrying a cradled bottle reverentially in both hands, he made his way across the dining-room towards the V.I.P.’s table. The formalities completed, the bottle presented and inspected, the label read and its inscription confirmed, he stood back and reached into his apron pocket for a corkscrew while those around the table voiced appreciation of their host’s impeccably good taste.

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face fell again. He wished now he’d paid more attention to the remains of the soup instead of bolting it down without a moment’s thought. He’d been living in cloud-cuckoo-land. Even if the bottle did turn out to be the one containing Pommes Frites’ specimen, it wouldn’t get any further than the opening. One sniff of the cork would reveal all; the other bottle
would be sent for immediately. On reflection, it was just as well. The scandal if it turned out that Les Cinq Parfaits had served
pipi
de
chien
to one of the guests in mistake for a Château d’Yquem would reverberate around the restaurants of France for years.

Idly he watched the beginnings of a set and invariable routine he’d seen countless times before; the application of the corkscrew, its deft rotation, the swift but sure single leverage ensuring the clean removal of the cork, the passing of it under the nose …

Suddenly he sat up and leaned across the table, concentrating all his attention on the scene in front of him. Before the
sommelier
had a chance to complete his task, almost before the cork had left the bottle, Albert Parfait appeared at his side. There was a brief exchange of words and then Monsieur Parfait himself took over, removing the cork from the screw and slipping it straight into the pocket of his apron without so much as a second glance.

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s eyes narrowed as a thought entered his mind and then emerged almost immediately as an inescapable conclusion. It could only mean one of two things; either the
patron
didn’t trust his
sommelier
before such important guests, or there was something about the bottle of wine which might cause the V.I.P. to reject it. The former was so unlikely that he dismissed it, allowing his mind to race on ahead as he watched the wine being poured into a glass ready for tasting.

Unable to stand it a moment longer, Monsieur Pamplemousse snapped his notebook shut and sprang to his feet. A joke was a joke, but he couldn’t allow it to happen. He
must
not allow it to happen. More than that, the evidence had to be destroyed. Albert Parfait was an idiot. Not only was the honour of Les Cinq Parfaits at stake, but also that of
Le
Guide,
its contemporaries, even that of France itself.

Ignoring those around him, his stiffness forgotten, scattering the waiters as he went, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached the table in a matter of seconds and removed the offending glass from Albert Parfait’s hand, placing it on a side table out of reach of the diners.

Their eyes met briefly. Failure was written large on
Albert’s face; failure and something else. Desperation? A mute cry for help? Whatever it was there could be no time for speculation.

Before anyone had a chance to react, Monsieur Pamplemousse whisked the bottle from its cradle and upended it into a nearby plant container. The effect of his action was both immediate and impressive. He stared at the plant. Its leaves were turning yellow and wilting before his very eyes.

Marvelling at the potency of Pommes Frites’ water, he turned towards the
Grosse
Légume
and braced himself for the inevitable explosion. But hardly had he done so than there was a new diversion. Aware of a movement from behind, a movement which was followed almost
immediately
by a choking sound, Monsieur Pamplemousse spun round on his heels and was just in time to see a hand clutching an empty glass disappear from view on the other side of the table.

Attention, which a moment before had been focused in his direction, suddenly switched as glass and silverware and china crashed to the floor, overriding the dull thud which preceded it.

As those nearby craned their necks in alarm, an elderly man jumped to his feet and rushed to the rescue, bending over the figure on the floor with a professional air.

Monsieur Pamplemousse hurried round the table to join him. ‘I think,
Monsieur,
’
he murmured as he crouched, ‘you will find it is only a temporary indisposition. The most it will require is the use of a stomach pump.’

The man looked up at him. ‘On the contrary,
Monsieur.
I am a doctor and I think you will find on closer examination that Monsieur Parfait is beyond such aids. Monsieur Parfait, alas, is en route to the
grande
cuisine
in the sky.’

‘Pamplemousse.' The Director held a sheaf of papers above his desk; heavily embossed notepaper, pink flimsies, yellow duplicates, sheets of memo paper. ‘Congratulations are being showered upon you. They arrive by the hour. I trust I may add mine?' He released his grip and they fluttered down at varying speeds, like multi-coloured leaves in an autumn breeze.

Monsieur Pamplemousse inclined his head non-committally, but warily.

The Director salvaged one of the heavier pieces of paper. ‘This one is from the Minister himself. He would like to see you later today – at your convenience. Word has also reached me from the Elysée Palace. Your name has been recorded. Even the
Grosse
Légume
has let it be known that he wishes to honour you with a decoration – the Grand Order of the Star of something or other. It is accompanied by an invitation to become his chief food taster.'

Monsieur Pamplemousse shuddered.

‘It carries a large salary commensurate with the post. The supply of wines would be without limit; the choice would be yours. Doubtless other pleasures would be at your command.'

‘I think not,
Monsieur
.'

The Director breathed a visible sigh of relief. ‘We would miss you, Aristide. The appointment is pensionable, but I doubt if you would live to enjoy it. You would also have
suffered opprobrium from on high. Relations between our two countries are somewhat strained at present.'

‘He has left France,
Monsieur
?'

‘At the highest possible speed. He and his entire entourage flew out last night on a specially chartered plane. The visit to Les Beaux Arbres has been postponed indefinitely. Outwardly he took diplomatic umbrage, but in reality he is a very frightened man. Like all bullies he is a coward at heart.

‘The soil in the pot-plant container at Les Cinq Parfaits is undergoing analysis. Preliminary reports suggest that there was enough poison in the bottle to kill a regiment. Whoever put it there was determined to make a good job of it.'

Monsieur Pamplemousse leant down and gave Pommes Frites' ear an affectionate tweak. At least his worst fear hadn't been realised. Responsibility for the contents of the bottle of Château d'Yquem rested elsewhere. He gave another half-suppressed shudder as the thought crossed his mind that he might well have tested the wine himself had he not been in such a hurry.

‘One almost regrets your act, Pamplemousse. I realise it was done with the best of intentions, but had the poison reached the person for whom it was intended few tears would have been shed. As it is, the world of
haute
cuisine
has been deprived of one of its most revered figures. The loss will be severe. It was a most unfortunate accident.'

‘Accident?' Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes for a brief moment while he pictured the scene in the restaurant. Albert Parfait's appearance that evening – the haunted look in his eyes; the final air of desperation. ‘I do not think it was an accident,
Monsieur
.'

‘What are you suggesting, Pamplemousse? If it was not an accident, then …'

‘I am convinced he knew what the bottle contained. That was why he took over its serving, and that being so, one can only assume the drinking of it to have been a deliberate and final act on his part.'

‘Surely not. By then, according to your own account, he knew his son was safe. The
Grosse
Légume
would soon be gone. He had everything to live for.'

‘Perhaps,
Monsieur,
“had” is the right word.'

‘Elucidate, Pamplemousse.'

Resisting the very real temptation to say, ‘Elementary, my dear Watson', Monsieur Pamplemousse racked his brains for the right words. Dishonour? Shame? Disgrace? Failure? Albert Parfait had probably known more of what was going on than most. If he'd known what the bottle contained then he must have been a party to its preparation, if only at arm's length. No doubt, pressure had been brought to bear: pressure from faceless people in authority whose names would never be known, leaving him to face the music. He must have seen the writing on the wall. He was no fool.

‘I think he could see ruination staring him in the face. Not financial ruin. People would still flock to Les Cinq Parfaits whatever happened. What he couldn't face was the loss of all the things for which he had worked so hard during his life; the things he knew would have made both his mother and his grandmother proud. He couldn't bear the thought of losing face where it mattered most. His Stock Pots in
Le
Guide,
his stars in Michelin, his toques in Gault Millau.'

‘You think it would have come to that?'

‘Michelin never award a third star to a restaurant simply for the food alone,' said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Nor,
Monsieur,
do we award our Stock Pots for that reason. The withdrawal might only have been temporary, but they would have been withdrawn and he couldn't face the thought.'

It was the Director's turn to fall silent. It had happened before, of course. There had been the famous occasion when a chef had committed suicide because of the loss of his only star in Michelin.

‘Ours is a heavy responsibility, Aristide,' he said at last. ‘The irony is that Les Cinq Parfaits will lose them anyway by virtue of Albert Parfait's own act.'

‘Only if that act is made public,
Monsieur
.'

The Director gave a start. ‘What are you suggesting, Pamplemousse?'

‘I am suggesting that if Albert Parfait's death is put down
to heart failure – which covers a multitude of sins – then things will go on as before.'

‘I am afraid that is not possible. I cannot agree. Knowing what I know, my conscience would not allow it.'

‘In that case,' Monsieur Pamplemousse felt inside his jacket pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. ‘I am afraid,
Monsieur,
I have to tender my resignation. My own conscience would not allow me to continue.' It was the least he could do. The mental picture of Albert Parfait's last imploring look remained vividly in his mind. A cry for help if ever he'd seen one. A cry that he'd unwittingly ignored.

The Director took the sheet of paper and stared at it disbelievingly. ‘What if I refuse to accept it?'

‘That is your decision,
Monsieur.
I shall be elsewhere.'

‘You realise what you are asking, Aristide?'

‘If it is possible to hush up the business of the Institut,' said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘as I am sure it will be, then doubtless it will also be possible to hush up the cause of Albert Parfait's death. Publication of the facts will do no one any good. Representations in certain quarters … a word in the right ear … I am sure you have many contacts,
Monsieur
…'

There was a long pause. ‘And if I do? Will you allow me to tear up this ridiculous letter?'

‘Perhaps,' said Monsieur Pamplemousse stubbornly. ‘We shall have to wait and see. Jean-Claude will take over.'

‘He knows about his father?'

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘I broke the news to him this morning.'

‘How has he taken it?'

‘It was a shock, although he had been expecting something to happen. It was the way it happened that bothered him most.'

‘You think he is capable of becoming
patron?
'

‘I am sure of it,
Monsieur.
It was his father's wish. He will rise to the occasion. Besides, he will not be alone. He will have the support of his brothers.' He took out his wallet and removed the photograph of the girl. ‘He also has
someone to work for and if all goes well, to help him. They have already been through a lot together.'

The Director took the photograph and studied it carefully.

‘It was for her that Jean-Claude conceived his plan,' continued Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘She is very attractive, I agree. But why her? There must have been many such girls at the Institut.'

‘When you are in love,
Monsieur
, it is always with the most beautiful girl in the world and always you fear for the attention of others. Jean-Claude knew the annual visit of the
Grosse
Légume
was drawing near and he became more and more convinced that she would be amongst his targets. But short of abduction, he couldn't think of any good reason for getting her out of the way without bringing trouble on Les Cinq Parfaits. He needed something which would bring her parents running to her rescue without actually giving the game away. That was when he dreamed up the idea of the kidnap note and why it had to be in English. The timing was critical – it had to be immediately before the “visit”. Unfortunately, just as he was about to put his plan into action something went wrong. Somehow or other, others got wind of it and panic set in. Getting rid of him for good was out of the question – he was too well known. Putting him out of action for a while in the Sanatorium was at best a temporary measure to keep him quiet while they tried to think what to do next.'

‘I am curious to know what led you to the Institut so quickly,' broke in the Director. ‘Locally, of course, I gather there had long been rumours about the place, but here in Paris there was nothing to connect it with Jean-Claude's disappearance. It was put down to all manner of things. At one point it was even suggested it might be the work of a foreign power. When you started your investigations on the instructions of certain people in authority, others started to panic. It had always been a case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing. Orders were issued and then, as new facts came to light, promptly countermanded.'

Monsieur Pamplemousse gripped the arms of his chair
impatiently. ‘
I
am curious to know how such a situation could ever have been allowed to develop in the first place. I find it incredible.'

‘Ssh! Aristide!' Putting a finger to his lips, the Director got up from behind his desk, crossed to the door, opened it and having looked out to make sure the coast was clear, indicated to his secretary that they were not to be disturbed.

Back at his desk he settled down again and made nervous play with a set of large ball-bearings suspended from a kind of stainless steel trapeze. In the silence of the office it sounded like the opening day of the National Boules Championship.

‘Politics, Aristide,' he said at last, ‘is a dirty game. In this case what probably began as a tiny favour on someone's part, a greasing of the wheels in return for a consideration, escalated beyond anything that had been contemplated. Greed is a very powerful incentive, and so is security. People who have grown accustomed to their creature comforts will often do anything within their power to avoid losing them. It begins in the cradle. Try taking a rattle away from a baby and see what happens. Instinctively the grip tightens.

‘The situation a few years ago when Europe – the whole of the Western world – suddenly found itself short of oil was very different to what it is now. We had grown accustomed to turning on the heat whenever we felt cold. Hot water poured from our taps. Engineers designed bigger and better cars powered by fuel which gushed out of our petrol pumps. It was there. It would always be there.

‘When all that suddenly disappeared for a brief while there was panic. Queues formed at garages. In America men were shot for the sake of a gallon of
essence.
People began to hoard coal and oil. Orders went out to take immediate action. Those we wouldn't normally have been seen dead with were suddenly courted as friends. Nothing was too much trouble for them.

‘No doubt when the
Grosse
Légume
first came on the scene instructions were issued by someone, somewhere, that he was to receive the very best of treatment. Doors
would be opened; his every wish pandered to. And when he expressed an interest in food, what better place to send him to than Les Cinq Parfaits? If the Parfaits objected, so much the worse for them. Bureaucracy wields a very heavy bludgeon when it comes to the renewal of licences. It also moves very slowly and is resistant to change. Those original orders were never rescinded.'

‘And when the
Grosse
Légume
expressed an interest in the pupils at the Institut des Beaux Arbres?' Monsieur Pamplemousse remained coldly unhelpful. ‘Did bureaucracy again turn a blind eye?'

The Director gave a sigh. ‘Different people have different standards, Aristide.'

He stood up and crossed to the window, gazing down at the slate-grey rooftops of the seventh arrondissement. To the right lay the Hôtel des Invalides, to the left the huge mass of the Eiffel Tower; on the hill beyond, the white confection of the Sacré Coeur stood out in the sunlight.

‘Two and a half million people are at work out there. At work and at play, engaged in the sheer business of living. In the Ile de France ten million. In the whole of France, over fifty-three million. Men, women, old people, children, babies; French, Moroccans, Algerians, Portuguese;
Catholics
, Jews, Protestants, Moslems. Perhaps, for those who were involved at the time, those who had been charged with the task of humouring the whims of the
Grosse
Légume,
there was no choice – the scales were too heavily weighted in his favour; fifty-three million to one. Perhaps in the beginning it was a simple case of minor corruption. We shall probably never know.'

‘It does not excuse it,
Monsieur,
'
said Monsieur Pamplemousse stubbornly.

‘No, Aristide.' The Director turned away from the window. ‘It does not excuse it. It merely explains it. I do not agree, nor do I entirely disagree. I was not in the position of having to make a decision. It is like asking someone if they approve or disapprove of transplanting the heart of a baboon into a child. If it is someone else's child they will most likely get hot under the collar and say no. If it is their own child the chances are they will say yes. It was
probably an on-the-spot decision, and once that decision had been made there was no going back.'