It was the hour of the morning affluence in Beaune and the gare was crowded. Being a Monday, half the people there were wanting a weekly season ticket, which didn’t help matters.
Rather than stand in a long line at the ticket office, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to use one of the new computerised billetterie automatique machines.
The fact that all the regulars obviously preferred queuing should have warned him. Doubtless it was all very wonderful; a child of eight would have been in its element. But the person who had designed the machine – and it wasn’t long before Monsieur Pamplemousse formed a vivid mental picture of what he must look like: sandals, beard, steel-framed spectacles, an absent-minded air – had clearly never in his life been in a hurry to catch a train. The machine posed so many questions and offered so many alternative replies to each and every one, his mind was soon reeling under the onslaught.
The final insult came when, having at last established beyond a shadow of doubt that, God willing, he had every intention of leaving Beaune that day en route to Dijon in a first class compartment, never to return, and that he had no intention of claiming any special status, either as a student or indeed in any of the many categories privileged to enjoy special rates, the machine enquired how he wished to pay. Opting to use his carte bleu credit card – one of several options at his disposal – the machine refused to accept it. No reason was given for the rejection, nor did it offer anything in the way of compensation for the loss of his valuable time. A priority voucher for the queue, which by now reached as far as the door, would not have come amiss, but the subject was clearly not up for discussion. The only saving grace was that it didn’t actually mange his card.
In the end, having watched his abortive efforts with growing impatience, a small boy with glasses and roller skates offered to help him out.
Swallowing his pride, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave him five francs for his trouble – a rate of roughly 300 francs an hour – and managed to scramble aboard the 9.30 train to Dijon seconds before the guard blew his whistle.
The consequence of it all was that not only did he spend the first five minutes of the quarter hour journey recovering both his breath and his temper, but he also failed to register Pommes Frites’ strange behaviour.
By the time he did sit up and take notice it was too late. Pommes Frites had given him up as a bad job. Warnings had been issued: if his master didn’t wish to take note of them, that was up to him. Perhaps he had good reason for not caring who else was travelling on the train. Perhaps even now, behind the mask of indifference, his master was playing a waiting game. He, Pommes Frites, had done his best. A dog couldn’t do more.
Unaware of all that was going on in Pommes Frites’ head, Monsieur Pamplemousse was conscious only of a recumbent form curled up on the floor at his feet. That, and an occasional feeling of unease as an eyelid was opened and a reproachful, if bloodshot eye fastened itself on him.
Ignoring it as best he could, he removed a note from his wallet and read it once again. Roughly printed on black ink on a plain sheet of paper, brief and to the point, it requested a meeting in Dijon at ten o’clock that morning. To be exact, a meeting in the crypt of the Cathédral St Bénigne. For whatever reason, the writer of the note must have gone to a lot of trouble to find somewhere where they wouldn’t be seen together.
The note had arrived along with his breakfast at eight o’clock. According to the porter at the hotel in Beaune where he had spent the night, someone must have left it on the reception desk earlier that morning when no one else was around.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed out of the train window. To his right lay the autoroute, crowded in both directions with fast-moving traffic. Beyond that was the Fôret de Citeaux. To his left, on the side where he was sitting, lay the long line of hills which made up the Côte d’Or. The slopes were covered with vines as far as the eye could see. All those grapes! All that wine! It seemed strange to be taking leave of it already; so much had happened in such a short space of time. The town of Nuits St George flashed past, then Clos de Vougeot. Gevrey-Chambertin would be next. Any moment now and he would be able to see Clos Ambert-Celeste.
As it came and went Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what, if anything, was happening there. It depended on whether or not the police took the shooting seriously. Ironically, they must have their hands full chasing the mythical rapist. The media would be baying for blood. The man’s capture would have top priority.
There would be an inquiry about the shooting, of course, but such accidents happened all the time. As Boniface had rightly said, things would be far worse in the hunting season. What was the number of hunting deaths he had last seen for France as a whole? Some incredible statistic; the sort that made people shudder when they read it and then quickly forget.
Of the party of five who went out yesterday morning, only four returned, and they denied knowledge of exactly what had happened. A startled rabbit jumping out from under their very feet … all four had fired simultaneously. Dominique, Madame Ambert’s brother – even more taken by surprise than the rest of them – had stumbled and one of the others … in the excitement it was impossible to say which one … must have hit him point blank.
It was plausible, possible even; these things happen. As plausible and as possible as the story of the tax inspector. If he’d been heading an inquiry Monsieur Pamplemousse knew the first question he would have asked.
At Dijon he joined the crowd heading for the subway and followed the signs indicating the locker area. Electronics took over again; rather more successfully this time. The machine dispensed a ticket with a computerised five figure number for the retrieval of his luggage. It even had the number of the locker printed on it. Monsieur Pamplemousse conservéd the ticket as instructed, putting it inside his wallet for safe keeping. To have his belongings incarcerated and miss the Paris train would be the last straw. He was suddenly anxious to get back home.
Twentieth-century technology struck another blow as he approached the great Burgundian Gothic cathedral of St Bénigne. Waterless restoration of the stonework was in progress; centuries of dirt vanishing in the ray from a tiny laser beam. The masons who had built it would have gazed in wonder and awe at the sight.
Signalling Pommes Frites to wait in the porch, Monsieur Pamplemousse entered the cathedral by the west door. Temporary rooms for the confessional boxes had been erected just inside. Both were locked. A notice listed when confessions were heard: between 16.30 and 18.30 on Thursday evenings, 16.30 and 19.00 on Fridays. Perhaps there was more to confess by the end of the week.
Following a line of arrows, he made his way down the right hand aisle until he found himself in a long passage leading to the sacristy. Paying his four francs entrance fee to an old woman in black seated behind a display of multilingual leaflets, he descended a circular flight of stone steps leading to the vaults.
He could have been stepping into Dante’s Inferno. There were flash-guns going off in all directions; tourists everywhere – German, Japanese, Dutch, English. If whoever had written him the note had pictured their having a quiet tête-à-tête, he or she was in for a rude awakening.
Squeezing his way into the dimly lit nave, past a group of Scandinavians peering down at what remained of St Bénigne’s tomb, Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself inside a maze of columns, the centre area of which formed the base of the original Romanesque rotunda.
He stood where he was for a while, allowing the crowds to wash around him, hoping someone might make their presence known, but he waited in vain. Five minutes went by, then ten. He gave it another five, then made his way slowly back up the stairs. Perhaps whoever sent the message had been having second thoughts.
As he emerged from the crypt the woman behind the table glanced up from her cash register and beckoned to him.
‘Monsieur Pamplemousse?’
‘Oui.’
She handed him a note.
‘Merci, Madame.’ Ten francs disappeared miraculously.
The meeting place had been changed to one of the old confessionals; the first on the left after entering the cathedral through the main door.
As he approached it, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt as though he were committing a crime; a crime or a mortal sin. Was he expected to play the role of priest or confessor? Presumably the former. What if a genuine believer missed the notice about the temporary arrangements and sought absolution? The answer to that was pinned on the board outside. Thursdays and Fridays only. Today was Monday. He could send them on their way with a clear conscience.
Choosing a moment when no one was looking, he pushed open a little half door and entered the double-sided box, pulling a red curtain across after him.
Inside it smelt of age. It was like being in a tiny wardrobe. He sat down facing outwards, wondering which side the voice would come from. Wondering, too, how many other secrets had been whispered over the years. What a strange vocation it must be, listening to others unfold their tales of weaknesses and woe.
A shadow darkened the screen on his right as someone entered the outer compartment. Monsieur Pamplemousse reached out and closed the shutter to his right.
The words when they came were hard to make out at first; muffled rather than husky. He guessed the speaker must be using a handkerchief.
‘It goes back a long way.’
‘Please begin at the beginning.’
‘You were around in 1942?’
‘I was around,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I was still at school, but I was around.’
‘In that case you know the things that went on. Particularly in some of the Lycées.’
‘The young are often rebellious, even if they are not always sure what they are rebelling against. It is in their nature.’
‘You know what happened here in Dijon?’
‘At the school? Madame Ambert told me. There were live students arrested and only one was ever seen again.’
‘Did she tell you my older brother, André, was among the ones who did not return?’
‘No.’
‘I worshipped him. He was all I ever wanted to be. Dominique Armand was the Judas … the one who talked. The others died because he wanted to save his own skin. When he came back after the war it was a while before the truth came out and when it did there was talk of revenge. He fled to America.’
‘Why do you think he returned after all this time?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Who knows? Greed? The thought of all that money which by rights he ought to be sharing. Things hadn’t been going all that well. He’d got himself mixed up in one or two shady enterprises. Maybe he also had a yearning to be part of it all again. Some people feel a need to go back to their roots as old age sets in. Fifty years is a long time. He probably thought it had all been forgotten.’
‘Revenge is sweet …’
‘It is also a dish best eaten cold.’ The speaker had dropped all pretence at disguising his voice now.
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘I want someone to know in case anything happens. If ever the truth comes out and I am not around for one reason or another I would like Madame Ambert to hear it from someone else’s lips. Someone she can trust. She knows my brother was one of those who did not return, but she does not know the reason. I would like her to understand why I did what I did.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse thought back over the conversation he had had with her over lunch.
‘She is no fool. I think perhaps she knows more than you think she does.’
‘There is something else I must tell you. Something important you should know in case it ever comes out. It is to do with the shooting accident. Only one gun was loaded with live ammunition. The other three had blanks.’
‘You mean …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the reply for a moment. Outside the confessional he could hear voices as a group went past. A flash went off. He waited until it was quiet.
‘You mean it was a kind of Russian roulette; four guns and only one live round. No one would know who fired the fatal shot?’
‘That was the intention.’
Something in the way it was said triggered off a thought in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind. ‘Who provided the ammunition?’
‘I did.’
‘And you made sure you got the round?’
‘It was the loader’s privilege.’
This time the silence said more than words.
‘What will you do?’ The question came at long last.
‘I will light a candle for you.’
‘Merci. You will tell no one?’
‘I am not a priest,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I am bound by no vow of silence. However, nor am I any longer a member of the Sûreté. Your secret is safe with me. What happens after we say goodbye is between you and your conscience.’ He hesitated. ‘There is one question I must ask … Others may ask it too.’
‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’
‘What happened to the rabbit?’
The box went quiet.
‘An accident I can believe … a gun going off prematurely. But four experienced hunters all missing a rabbit right at their feet, that I would find hard to accept …’
There was another moment of silence, longer this time.
‘Merci. There is someone coming. I must go.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt the light on his face as the shadow moved swiftly away. Footsteps came and stopped for a moment outside the box. He held his breath, then relaxed as they went on their way again.
He waited for a while before making a move.
Pommes Frites was restive again, pacing up and down the pavement as though he had something on his mind. He looked relieved to see his master.
Monsieur Pamplemousse set off towards the Place Darcy, where he had seen a Pavillon du Tourisme on the way in. As it happened he found himself walking along the rue Docteur-Chassier. A little way along he stopped outside no. 9 bis. The gates were closed. Madame Ambert was right. There was no longer a plaque marking where the Gestapo headquarters had been during the Occupation. The building now seemed to be favoured by the medical profession. Perhaps it was just as well. Why commemorate so many unhappy memories?
He paused for a moment, gazing up at the windows with their net curtains. Fear of the unknown was perhaps the worst fear of all. Some people could manage that kind of thing, others couldn’t. It was hard to picture how Dominique must have felt as he was marched inside, or to say what was right and what was wrong, or how one might have behaved in similar circumstances.
At the Pavillon du Tourisme he acquired a map of Dijon. The girl behind the counter was young, too young to know, or perhaps even care what had gone on. She conferred with a friend and together they directed him to where he wished to go.
As he approached the entrance to a small terraced park on the southern tip of the square, he came across a stone let into the wall commemorating the liberation of Dijon by Général de Lattre de Tassigny on the eleventh of September 1944.
Inside the park all was peace. Presided over by an unlikely-looking statue of a polar bear, the benches were mostly occupied by old men drinking in the sun as they listened to the fountains play or sat watching swans gliding gracefully to and fro in a small lake. Others had been commandeered by ladies taking a rest from their shopping, passing the time until their autobus was due. Here and there, young men and girls perched precariously on the back rails, gazing into each other’s eyes for minutes, perhaps even hours on end. Obviously it was the current ‘in’ thing to do. Such behaviour goes in cycles.
Following the directions he had been given, Monsieur Pamplemousse found what he was looking for at last. Inside a building behind some iron railings he could see students hard at work; a teacher writing on a blackboard.
On a wall near the main entrance there was a plaque: ‘On this spot in May 1942 five students were arrested by the Gestapo and subsequently deported to Germany. Only one returned.’
Someone had placed a single red rose on the pavement below the plaque. It looked freshly cut. Monsieur Pamplemousse bent down to count the petals; there were thirty-five, dark red and velvety. The scent was unforgettably that of Papa Meilland.
The plaque listed five names in alphabetical order. Ambert, Dominique, headed the list. Then came Delamain, André. The other three names meant nothing to him, although he could guess their identity.
He wandered away from the school, aimlessly at first, in and out of the maze of back streets in the old part of the city, lost in thought; a mixture of anger at all the suffering caused by man’s inhumanity to man, of so many lives cut short, and of so much waste. Pommes Frites trotted alongside, stopping every now and then to leave his mark. He, too, seemed lost in his own thoughts, occasionally sniffing the air as though looking for someone.
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s meanderings took them past the Halles Centrales food market. It was nearly lunch time and the neighbouring streets were jammed with vans and lorries. Most of the nearby bars were doing a roaring trade as the drivers waited impatiently for the stall owners to call it a day. He wondered if Fabrice had been shopping for a rabbit.
A little way beyond the market he came across the vast bulk of the church of Notre Dame, with its rows of gargoyles and its three-bay porch. A little way along a side street a girl was having her photograph taken stroking an owl carved on one of the buttresses. He remembered reading that it was supposed to bring wisdom and happiness. It also reminded him of a promise he had made and he left Pommes Frites to wait while he went inside to light a candle.
When he returned after a minute or two, Pommes Frites seemed unusually glad to see him. It was he, rather than Monsieur Pamplemousse, who led the way across the street and into a narrow, pedestrianised precinct opposite the church.
Suddenly, as they neared a small créperie, he stopped dead in his tracks and uttered a low, warning growl.
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked round quickly.
‘You!’ He made his way towards two figures waiting in the doorway of a bar. ‘What are you doing here? What do you want?’
‘A little information, that’s all. Care for a drink?’ JayCee nodded towards an empty table on the pavement.
Aware of warning signals emanating from Pommes Frites, Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘Non, merci.’
JayCee shrugged, withdrew a pigskin wallet from his hip pocket, and began sorting through a wad of visiting cards. The one he selected bore the name of a protection agency with an address in Los Angeles.
Monsieur Pamplemousse cast his eye over it. It could be legitimate: it might equally well have been printed on a do-it-yourself machine in a local supermarket.
‘You have problems with your job description?’
‘You name it. I got fingers. The world is full of pies.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped the card into his top pocket, then turned to Abeille. ‘You do not look like a protection agent.’
‘Jesus! There you go again. What do I look like? First you tell me I don’t look domesticated. Then I don’t look like a wine writer. Now it’s I don’t look like I’m into protection.’
‘Listen,’ JayCee interrupted. ‘You had a meeting lined up just now. I want to know who it was with.’
‘I am afraid I cannot tell you.’
‘For Christ’s sake, why not?’
‘You wouldn’t expect me to betray a confession?’
‘Don’t give me that crap.’
‘I repeat, it would be a betrayal. There has been enough of that already. I am not in the mood to argue.’
‘You can bend the rules. Once a cop, always a cop, right?’
‘Why do you wish to know?’
‘Let’s just say it’s a matter of some unfinished business. I owe it to a client … correction, an ex-client. OK?’
‘Non,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is not OK.’ Reaching for his own wallet, he removed the pellet he had been carrying around and held it up for the other to see.
‘Hey! Give me that.’
JayCee made a lunge, then jumped back as Pommes Frites beat him to it.
‘Anyway, so what?’ he blustered. ‘You’ve got nothing to connect me with that.’
‘No?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the slug. He was about to mention the tape which was locked away with his luggage at the gare – he didn’t doubt that in the hands of an expert it would reveal more than he had been able to see – but he caught Abeille’s eye. Reading his thoughts, she shook her head slightly.
He decided to take a chance.
‘How about the evidence of the man who drove you to Beaune and back on the night of the pageant?’ It was a bullseye in one.
JayCee stared long and hard at Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I could make you change your mind.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around. The shops on either side of the street were thronged with people. Already those sitting outside the café were casting curious glances in their direction. Further along, near the entrance to the market he could see two gendarmes talking to a lorry driver.
‘Here? In the centre of Dijon? The police would have your guts for garters, and Pommes Frites would finish up what was left. It is a long time since breakfast.’
‘So, what do you suggest?’
‘That you return to California. There are things here which are best left as they are.’
They stood in silence for a second or two, then JayCee gave a shrug.
‘I guess you win some, you lose some. You can’t blame me for trying.’ Giving Pommes Frites a wide berth, he pushed past. ‘Come along, Hunn.’
Abeille made as if to follow him, then paused. Pressing herself briefly against Monsieur Pamplemousse she gave him a kiss on the forehead.
‘Thanks. You know something? Meeting you was a very life-enhancing experience.’
‘I am not sure Dominique Ambert would say the same.’
‘Yeah. You’re right. But that would have happened anyway.’
‘Who knows?’
‘Hunn!’ An impatient voice came from somewhere behind him.
‘What is it you French say? À bientôt. Until next time.’
‘In this case,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I think the correct word is adieu. It means goodbye.’
‘Adieu!’ As she went past he felt a tingle running down his back.
He didn’t look back.
After a suitable interval he turned and headed in the direction of the gare. A clock was striking the hour as they made their way down the rue de la Liberté.
Pommes Frites, who was visibly more relaxed, drew his master’s attention to a large brasserie in a nearby side street.
It bore all the signs. Starched white table cloths. Waiters speeding to and fro carrying heavily laden trays high above their heads, missing each other by a hairsbreadth, skidding to a halt on the polished floor. Baskets of fresh, crisp-looking bread. Vast floral arrangements. And if the view through the window was anything to go by, it was full of contented regulars.
The high desk by the revolving entrance doors bore the unmistakable patina of age. In its heyday it would have housed a madame in black bombasine keeping a watchful eye on all that went on; now it served as a repository for an assortment of credit card machines.
Spotting one of the last remaining tables, Monsieur Pamplemousse seated himself on a banquette between a potted palm and a heavily laden coat stand. Gazing round with approval, he gave Pommes Frites a congratulatory pat.
A Kir appeared, large, and of the correct proportion; a small ripple on the surface of Boniface’s lake. It would have been a severe disappointment had it been otherwise.
He ordered a ham and cheese omelette, a green salad, and a pichet of red Côte de Beaune.
Afterwards, he shared a steak with Pommes Frites.
Looking at his watch, he called for l’addition. No doubt Doucette would have something special waiting for him when he got back to Paris.
The cordless credit card machine arrived at his table. He tapped in his personal number, pressed the validation key, and seconds later it accepted his carte bleu without question.
Monsieur Pamplemousse breathed a sigh of relief. All was right with the world again.
They arrived at the gare just as a cavalcade of motorcycles roared into the forecourt, escorting a small convoy of black Citroëns. Making for the left luggage lockers he found his way barred by an armed gendarme who demanded his ticket.
‘What is happening?’
‘Monsieur le Président.’
‘Curiously,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I was thinking of him only yesterday morning. Perhaps he is here to see the escargots?’
‘Monsieur le Président is just passing through.’
‘Quel dommage! A pity!’ It would have been something to talk about at the annual staff party.
The gendarme took a firmer grasp of his carbine. ‘Et vous, Monsieur?’
‘Just passing through,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse sadly, as he tapped in his number.
‘I am sorry to have sent you off on a wild goose chase, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director. ‘I gather from Chantal’s aunt that the problem at the vineyard has sorted itself out. It seems a pity that you chose to cut the holiday short. How I envy you the experience; the peace and tranquillity of it all … the total rest … all that food and wine.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse found it hard to find the right words. Some people seemed to go through life completely oblivious to the problems of others.
‘I think it is possible, Monsieur, that had I not been there things might have taken a different course.’
Is that so?’ The Director rummaged among some papers on his desk. ‘Véronique asked me to give you this fax. It arrived this morning.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at the form. It was in response to a request he had made for information about the existence of JayCee’s protection agency in Los Angeles. It read as he had expected.
‘THE ANSWER IS IN THE NEGATIVE.’
‘I do hate that kind of jargon,’ said the Director. ‘Why can’t people just say no.’
‘Some people find saying “no” is the hardest thing in the world,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
The Director looked at him keenly.
‘Madame Ambert mentioned to Chantal that there was a girl involved. Is that why you have returned early? Was she … nice?’
‘The answer to the first question, Monsieur, is again in the negative.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse derived a certain amount of pleasure as he saw a look of pain cross the Director’s face. ‘As for her being nice …’ He considered the matter for a moment.
‘In some respects she was like no other girl I have ever met. Unclassifiable.’
‘That means she was exceptional?’
‘No, Monsieur, simply unclassifiable.’
‘Aaah.’
‘She told me she wanted un baiser behind the boundary wall of Romanée-Conti.’
The Director went into a state of shock.
‘In July? When the grapes are reaching a critical stage? It could have been a costly affair, Pamplemousse. Think how much each vine must be worth. I shudder to think of Madame Grante’s reaction had we been involved in litigation. Our P39 expense sheets would have been consigned to the PENDING tray.’
‘I managed to dissuade her, Monsieur.’
‘I am pleased to hear it. Did you … did you get to know her later?’
‘Neither biblically,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘nor in any other way. Although it was certainly not for lack of opportunity.’
Briefly, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave the Director a run-down on much that had happened, omitting those elements that were not for publication, concentrating more on the basics.
‘You are saying the American was some kind of hit man called in by Dominique Ambert to do away with Fabrice Delamain?’ broke in the Director at one point. ‘What is the world coming to?’
‘Dominique was already involved in that kind of world. Having become convinced that it was his life or Fabrice’s, and having seen undreamt of possibilities within his grasp, he wasn’t going to give up without a struggle.’
‘Was the girl deeply involved?’
‘In the beginning I think she had no idea what was happening. She had simply gone along for the ride. I doubt if she had any idea what was going on until she came across a book – whether she came across it by chance in the boat’s library or JayCee had it with him, we shall never know. The unlikely truth is that she was as simple and as genuine as she looked. A little like the film star Marilyn Monroe in that respect, and blessed with a figure to match. A child of nature who was streetwise enough to know instinctively which side her bread was buttered on. Insecure, and desperately wanting to prove herself. When she was told to keep me occupied she did her level best in the only way she knew how and got herself into even deeper water.
‘Dominique had organised the pageant and booked JayCee and his girlfriend onto the boat. Not realising the kind of fellow-passengers there would be, JayCee thought up the idea of having her give a talk on wine to keep her out of the way. When he discovered my connection with the law he quickly tried to kill two birds with one stone by persuading me to look after her on the first night, knowing it would keep us both occupied. He hadn’t bargained on his girlfriend unsuspectingly videoing the pageant. He also hadn’t reckoned on Pommes Frites’ ability to smell a villain a kilometre away and latch on to his being the thirteenth nun.’
‘And after all that,’ said the Director, ‘Dominique has to go and get killed in a shooting accident. Life is very strange.’
‘It is indeed,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gravely.
‘Talking of which, Aristide, I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
‘Not another family crisis, Monsieur?’
‘Worse than that, I fear. I have had a change of heart about the logo. It was triggered off by the finding of the escargots. As I said on the telephone it seemed an omen and the more I thought about it the more I began to feel we should take heed of the fact.
‘One of the great strengths of France is her ability to embrace progress whilst at the same time retaining those things that have made her what she is; the old values.
‘To cut a long story short, while you were away I faxed a number of our most important clients and posed the simple question: “Should we or should we not make the change?” Their answers were fed into our computer and the overwhelming vote is to keep things as they are.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked down. ‘That is bad news, Monsieur,’ he said gravely. ‘Especially after all Pommes Frites has been through on Le Guide’s behalf.’
‘I have the print-out here, Aristide, if you care to see it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse waved it aside. ‘Will you tell him, Monsieur? Or shall I?’
‘He is your dog, Pamplemousse.’
‘It was your idea, Monsieur.’
The Director tapped his desk top nervously. ‘I wouldn’t know how to begin.’
‘In the beginning was the word, Monsieur.’
‘How will he take it, do you think?’
‘In some respects,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘Pommes Frites has much in common with Abeille, the girl I have just been talking about. He has a simple approach to life. I think in his case he takes the view that there are few problems on this earth which cannot be cured by a good bone.’
The Director reached for his phone. ‘Jambon or boeuf?’
Glancing round the room in search of inspiration, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s gaze landed on the portrait of Le Guide’s founder, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval. Was his imagination working overtime, or did he detect the merest hint of a smile on his face? Once again, it could have been a trick of the light, or maybe merely a reflection of the gleam of anticipation in Pommes Frites’ eyes. No matter what, the message from the latter was loud and clear.
‘Perhaps a little of each, Monsieur?’
Pommes Frites didn’t go quite so far as to nod his approval, but from the way he was licking his lips Monsieur Pamplemousse could tell he had said the right thing.
‘After all, one way and another he has lost a lot of weight. He definitely needs building up again.’