Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (18 page)

‘If you will forgive me,
Monsieur
le
Directeur
,’ Chambard butted in. ‘There are some matters best left unexplained. I am sure you will understand me if I use the word
sécurité.
Sécurité
Nationale
.’

‘As for the cost,’ the senior of the two officials raised a beautifully manicured hand, ‘rest assured it will be taken care of.’

The Director looked suitably impressed. ‘Of course. I understand. However, that leads me to the second matter.’ As he spoke he swivelled his chair so that it faced towards the other end of the room.

Monsieur Pamplemousse followed suit and as he did so his gaze alighted first on the model of the Ideal Inspector, clean-shaven, not a hair on his head out of place, immaculately knotted tie. He gave a start as his eyes travelled downwards. Sitting on a large sheet of brown paper, mud-stained and somewhat the worse for wear, rather like a captured enemy tank, stood an all too familiar object. It was held down by some large iron stage weights.

Pommes Frites saw it too. He bounded across the room, went round it several times, nearly knocking Alphonse over in the process, before finally giving vent to a loud howl as he settled down in bewilderment in order to consider the problem.

Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. ‘It is a difficult matter to explain,
Monsieur.
That is, or rather was, Pommes Frites’ kennel –’

‘I
know
it is Pommes Frites’ kennel, Pamplemousse.’ The Director assumed his Patience Personified voice. ‘The question is, why is the entrance sealed, and why does it have a quantity of ladies’ lingerie glued to the outside?
Black
lingerie
. If it is like that on the outside, heaven alone knows what it is like within. The whole thing is totally beyond my comprehension.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to say that quite possibly the Director might find the remains of some
char
cuterie
, but before he had a chance to speak Inspector Chambard took over again.

‘We think we know who is responsible,
Monsieur
. It is the
work of a certain person in the entertainment world who bears, if I may say so,’ he inclined his head towards Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘a striking physical resemblance to a member of your staff. He is a person of somewhat bizarre tastes and as such he is not welcome in our part of the world. He was last seen by one of the attendants at Château Morgue carrying that object into the bushes on the night of the raid. On that evidence alone we cannot prosecute. Nevertheless, it is not something he would wish to have made public. He has been told in no uncertain terms that should he ever show his face anywhere near Narbonne again we shall
jeter
le
livre
at him.’

The Director gazed with distaste at the object under discussion. He gave a sigh. ‘We live in a sordid world. I sometimes wonder if there is any limit to Man’s depravity. I wouldn’t have your job for all the
thé
de
la
Chine,
Chambard. What on earth would anyone want with an inflatable dog kennel to which items of ladies’ underwear have been glued? What would they do with it?’

Inspector Chambard gave a shrug which said it all. He turned to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘With your permission,
Monsieur,
we would like to put it on permanent display in the
Musée
des
Collections
Historiques
de
la
Préfecture
de
Police
– in the
Déviations
Sexuelles
division. Naturally we would pay for the cost of a replacement.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had been about to protest, but he rapidly changed his mind. Restoring the kennel to its normally pristine condition would not be easy. He’d had to make a slit in the outer inflation tube in order to fill the inside with gas; traces of
lingerie
might be left. Besides, it would be nice to think of Pommes Frites having a place in the Hall of Fame. He might even take him to see it one day. All that apart, he’d caught Chambard’s wink.

‘Good. That’s settled then.’ The senior of the two men from the Ministry stood and drained his glass. His companion followed suit.

‘You have rendered an incalculable service to your country, Monsieur Pamplemousse. Not just in the matter of drugs, which is a constant and never-ending battle – as fast as one hole is plugged another opens up – but in an area which affects
us all: the security of the western world. There will be a decoration, of course.’

‘In the fullness of time. It wouldn’t do to arouse too much interest for the time being.’

‘Pommes Frites, too. We understand it was he who located the
charcuterie
.’

At the mention of his name, coupled with the evocative word ‘
charcuterie
’, Pommes Frites pricked up his ears. As far as he was concerned there had been a great deal of talk and very little action. He was also getting hungry. Perhaps things were about to take a turn for the better.

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. Doucette would be pleased, but deep down he knew he couldn’t possibly accept. It was easier for him; he could evaluate the risks involved. Pommes Frites, on the other hand, did things out of love and a generosity of spirit, a simple desire to please his master. He was happy to be rewarded with a kind word and a pat at the end of it all.

‘What I did was nothing. At one time it would have been part of my job. However, a mention for Pommes Frites would be nice. Something small he can hang on his collar. I’m sure he would appreciate it.’

Behind his back the Director raised his shoulders in a shrug which was part exasperation, part pride at Monsieur Pamplemousse’s reaction.

Au
revoirs
said, the men from the Ministry departed; perhaps they had a matinee performance elsewhere. Inspector Chambard nodded and followed them at a discreet distance.

The Director motioned Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites to remain behind. ‘There is a
soupçon
of wine left in the bottle. It would be a pity to waste it.’

‘
Merci,
Monsieur.
’ As Monsieur Pamplemousse settled down again he glanced across at Pommes Frites’ kennel and then with some distaste at Alphonse.

The Director read his thoughts. ‘I think Alphonse will be taking an early retirement,’ he said. ‘I have decided that he is, perhaps, a little too perfect for our requirements. To tell you the truth, his smile is beginning to get on my nerves, I have to cover him up from time to time.’

‘Holier than thou?’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Holier than all of us, I fear, Aristide,’ replied the Director. ‘I think it is high time he went back to the shop window whence he came. He will be just in time for the spring sales. He has served his purpose and it seemed a good ploy at the time.

‘As you will have gathered from the letter, I was under some compulsion from the powers that be to send you to Château Morgue. It came about as the result of a chance remark at an official function when I happened to talk of our plans.

‘Tell me, Aristide,’ the Director dropped his voice. ‘These things intrigue me, it is such a different world from the one I am used to. The letter … Did you … did you eat it?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse lowered his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to tell a direct lie.

The Director followed his glance and light dawned. ‘Pommes Frites again! I should have known. Some kind of emergency, no doubt. I will not embarrass you by probing too deeply.’

Draining his glass, he crossed to the cupboard and closed both doors with an air of finality. ‘Ah, Pamplemousse, I do envy you at times – you people in the field. You lead exciting lives.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse took his cue. The interview was at an end.

‘No doubt you will be taking Madame Pamplemousse out for a surprise
dîner
tonight. Where is it to be, Robuchon, Taillevant? Let my secretary know and I will have reservations made.’

‘It is kind of you, Monsieur, but I think we shall be eating
chez
nous.
’ Doucette would be highly suspicious if he took her to either of the places the Director had mentioned. They were reserved for very special occasions. She would think he was suffering from a guilt complex and suspect the worst.

‘I understand.’ As he opened the door the Director assumed his man-of-the-world voice for the benefit of anyone who happened to be listening. ‘We will save it for another time.’

As Monsieur Pamplemousse left the Director’s office and made his way down the corridor, he had an odd feeling in the back of his mind that something was missing; some piece of the jig-saw was still not yet in place. Turning a corner, he found
Inspector Chambard waiting for him. They shook hands briefly and fell into step.

‘
Déjeuner
?’ Chambard eyed him hopefully. ‘Have it on me. I am not often in Paris.’

‘Why not? We can take a stroll towards the fourteenth. There is a little
bistro
I know. On Tuesdays they have
cotriade
– we can share one if you like.’ The Malvoisie had sharpened his appetite for seafood. They could help it on its way with a bottle of Muscadet. Who was it who said the good Lord decreed that there should be fine wine made at the mouth of the Loire to go with the
fruits
de
mer
?

‘The Muscadet they serve is one of the few still made
sur
lie
– without racking. It is full of character.’

Pommes Frites knew the
bistro
too. He was well known there and often got invited round the back. His pace quickened as he picked up the scent. It was nice to be back in the old routine.

While they were waiting for someone to come and take their order, Inspector Chambard took out his notebook and flipped open the cover. He turned a few pages.

‘I hope you will not mind my asking this. You do not have to answer, of course. It is, as it were, a matter between friends. However, I, too, have to write out a report and there are one or two loose ends. You understand?’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I am afraid I do not have your imagination. I have to discover the exact truth.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. He understood. Once a policeman, always a policeman. He wished Chambard would get on with it.

‘Firstly, when our man met you in Narbonne you did not respond to the prearranged code message. I assume you had a good reason?’

‘Ah, the prearranged code message.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself playing for time again.

‘Our man said “All is for the best”, and you were meant to say “in the best of possible worlds”. It is from Voltaire.’

‘One cannot be too careful.’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, I am used to working alone.’

Inspector Chambard looked hurt. ‘Our man thought you must be Ananas after all. We’d had word that he was on the
same train. I’m afraid he must have given you a rough ride. He does not consider himself one of Ananas’ greatest fans.’

‘He is not alone in that.’

The point was taken. ‘I sympathise. But I think you will be rid of the problem for a while. If our friend knows what is good for him he will be keeping a low profile. To do him justice I don’t think he realised what he was letting himself in for. A weak man himself, he was attracted by those of like mind. Such people have extrasensory perception.’ There was a pause.

‘One other thing. Tell me,
was
it you with the English
Madame
the other evening?’

‘We had dinner in the village.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what was coming now.

‘And do I have your word that it was not you who was responsible for the robbery in the ladies’ changing rooms?’

‘You do.’

Inspector Chambard looked relieved. He methodically drew some lines across the page, then snapped the book shut, replacing a rubber band which held the covers together.

‘You’d be surprised at the things that go on at a health farm. Cut people off from their food and they get desperate. I have over forty pairs of
culottes
unaccounted for. I can’t tell you what a headache that is. The only ones we have retrieved so far are those on Pommes Frites’ kennel. But we will find them. Never fear. We will find them.’

But Monsieur Pamplemousse was hardly listening. ‘
Pardon
.’ He rose from the table. ‘I have an urgent telephone call to make.’

How long had he been in Paris? Three days? He wondered if he had left it too late. His room might have been searched. Worse still, Mrs. Cosgrove could have already gone back to England. As the ringing tone started he found himself crossing his fingers.

‘Château Morgue?’ At least the switchboard was still operating. ‘Madame Cosgrove,
s’il
vous plaît
.’

‘
Oui,
Monsieur
.’

He breathed a sigh of relief. She must still be there. Conscious of a couple at a nearby table half listening to his conversation, he turned his back. In a mirror behind the bar he
could see a reflection of the kitchen. Pommes Frites was busy with a bowl.

‘Anne!’

‘
Oui
, I am well, thank you.’ He felt excited at hearing her voice again. ‘I am sorry … I wanted to telephone, but … I wasn’t sure if you would still be there.’ It sounded a feeble excuse.

‘Tomorrow? I hope you have a good journey.’

‘He’s got off? You must be relieved –’

‘I hope so too.’

‘Listen … before you go, can you do me a favour? Under my bed you will find a parcel. Could you post it for me?’

‘No, not
to
me,
for
me.’ That would be a disaster – if a parcel of assorted
lingerie
arrived while he was away and Doucette opened it by mistake, he would never hear the last of it.

‘What address?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Address it to Madame Grante, care of
Le
Guide
.’ That would give her something to think about. He fed another coin into the slot. ‘I have only a little time left.’ One franc’s worth to be precise and there were so many things he wanted to say.

‘Who knows? One day, perhaps?’

‘
Oui
, it is a small world. Listen … thank you again,
et
bonne
chance.
George too.’