‘Entrez!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse used the brief moment between knocking on the door of the Director’s office and responding to the command by taking a deep mental breath. He had totally lost track of time since his last visit. In some respects it felt like only yesterday, in other ways it could have been weeks or even months. By his side, Pommes Frites, clearly sensible to the importance of the occasion, peered at his reflection in a full length mirror hanging in the outer office. He seemed reasonably satisfied by what he saw.
Normally, although Pommes Frites’ existence was accepted (there had even been talk at one time of giving him his own P39s, but this had been quashed by Madame Grante) his visits to the office of Le Guide were restricted to the typing pool on the ground floor. It was a long time since he’d been invited up to the holy of holies.
‘Entrez!’ The voice was louder this time, and slightly impatient. It coincided with his opening the door.
‘Pamplemousse! Welcome back.’ The Director came round to the front of his desk, arms outstretched in welcome.
For one dreadful moment Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he was about to be embraced. He hoped his momentary recoil had passed unnoticed.
‘And Pommes Frites.’
The Director covered their mutual embarrassment by bending down to administer a pat. Pommes Frites looked even more surprised than his master. Such a thing had never happened before. He responded by jumping up and putting his paws on the Director’s shoulders.
‘Ah, yes. Bon chien.’ The Director removed a handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed at his face. Pommes Frites’ tongue was large and rather wet.
‘Gentlemen …’ He turned and Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly realised they were not alone. Sitting beneath the portrait of Hippolyte Duval were two anonymous-looking men, immaculately clad in Identikit dark blue suits and matching ties. There was a third figure sitting to one side and slightly behind them. To his surprise he saw it was Inspector Chambard.
He wished now he had put on a suit or worn a jacket rather than a polo-necked jersey. The invitation had sounded informal; come as you are – a kind of end-of-term get-together with the headmaster. Obviously there was more to it than that.
‘Gentlemen, Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites.’ The Director motioned him forward. ‘Inspector Chambard I think you have already met. These two gentlemen are from the Ministère.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took due note of the fact that neither the Ministry nor its representatives were mentioned by name.
The taller of the two men rose to greet him. ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse, we have come to offer our congratulations. We have received a copy of your report and I can only describe it as a minor masterpiece.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse tried hard to conceal his surprise. ‘It is nothing. I merely put down the facts as I saw them.’
‘You are too modest.’ The second of the two men joined his colleague. ‘Facts, yes. It is what you did with them that matters.’
‘A tour de force.’
‘Brilliantly simple.’
‘Fantastic, yet not impossible.’
The dialogue came out so smoothly Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself wondering if they had spent the morning rehearsing it. Perhaps whichever Ministry it was they worked for employed them as a roving double act.
‘Tell me, Pamplemousse,’ the Director was not going to be outdone in his own office, ‘have you ever considered taking up writing for a living? We would hate to lose you, but clearly you have a flair for plot construction. I must confess it is something which has escaped me in the past when reading your culinary reports. They are always very elegant, of course, not to say mouth-watering on occasions, but often bordering on the verbose – like some of your articles in the Staff Magazine. However, this …’ He sat down behind his desk and picked up what Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised as a copy of his report. Attached by means of an outsize paper-clip were some blow-ups taken from the roll of film he’d left at the same time. ‘This –’
‘Could be your greatest work of fiction,’ broke in the first of the two men, taking up the running again. He seemed slightly put out by the interruption. ‘I shall always treasure the picture you conjure up of Château Morgue. Those little old ladies pedalling away like mad on their cycling machines.’ He broke into a chuckle. ‘The notion of them all developing outsize calves as a result was a master-stroke.’
‘And the tea parties beforehand. We mustn’t forget the tea parties.’ His companion allowed himself a smile too. ‘The mountains of pâtisserie they consumed – all fresh from the bakery in the Tower Block.’
‘And for what?’
‘So that their heart conditions would be exacerbated to such an extent that violent exercise immediately afterwards would bring about an early death –’
‘Having, of course, first rewritten their Wills in favour of the Schmucks. We mustn’t forget that.’
‘Ici Paris will have a field day.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed around the room. The reception being accorded to his report wasn’t at all what he had expected. He listened with growing irritation to the peals of uncontrolled laughter.
‘Tell me, Pamplemousse,’ the Director wiped his eyes in an effort to restore calm. ‘What gave you the idea? You have the happy knack of making it sound as though you believe every word you have written.’
Feeling somewhat out of his depth, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to play for time. He said nothing.
The Director misinterpreted his silence. ‘Gentlemen, if I may say so, that is typical of the man. Modest to a fault.’
He crossed to a cupboard and withdrew a set of keys from his hip pocket. As he unlocked and opened the door a light came on to reveal a collection of bottles. ‘I think this calls for a little celebration. Aristide, you set the ball rolling. What will you have?’
Reaching inside the cupboard he opened another door at the back. A second light came on, reflected this time by a frosty interior. ‘This may interest you – a Malvoisie. It comes from a small grower in the Loire. The last of a dying breed. When he goes I doubt if anyone else will make it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse accepted with alacrity. Apart from providing a welcome change of subject, he was looking forward to the experience. He had come across fleeting references to it in books. Made from the same grape variety as Tokay, its history dated back to the days when the trade routes of Asia Minor all passed through Malvasia. The fact that someone was still making it in the Loire was a discovery indeed.
He held his glass up to the light. The colour was pale and straw-like, the flavour on the nose sweet but not cloying, with just a hint of complexity. Altogether a delicious interlude and one which drew murmurs of appreciation all round the room. Le Guide, he was pleased to see, was upholding its reputation.
Tongues loosened, a common bond established, the Director refilled the glasses and returned to his desk.
‘You think the press will buy Pamplemousse’s story?’
‘If we point them in the right direction. The press will buy anything if it sells more copies. Besides, in a perverse kind of way it is too far-fetched for them not to.’ The leader of the two men turned to his companion for confirmation.
‘I agree. And if the newspapers swallow it, then so will the public. There’s nothing they like better than a good, juicy scandal.’
‘The truth is somewhat more prosaic.’
‘It must not go beyond these four walls.’
‘Certain people are involved.’
‘Members of the “International Set” … Ministers …’
‘Governments could fall.’
‘Those involved will be punished, of course, but in a roundabout way. They will quietly disappear from the public eye. There will be a number of “early retirements” around the world. A few “golden handshakes”. It is better that way.’
‘Others will be leant on. They will find life that much more difficult from now on. Some will disappear from the television screens for a while.’ It sounded like a passing reference to Ananas. Really, the whole thing was too tantalising for words.
Inspector Chambard reached for his wallet and took out a card. ‘I must say you kept us on our toes one way and another.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start as he recognised his postcard to Doucette. No wonder she had complained about not receiving one. And to think he had blamed the office of the Postes et Télécommunications.
‘We knew straight away that it must contain a hidden message of some kind, but you have no idea how long it took us to find it. The expression “cous-cous” had us fooled for quite a while.’
‘It is what I sometimes call my wife,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘It is a term of endearment I use when we are apart.’
‘So we discovered … in the end!’ Inspector Chambard sounded reproachful.
‘We had our best men working on it. They tried all the usual things. The message under the stamp routine – the fact that it was on upside down bothered them. They even tried the old invisible ink out of milk ploy. And there it was – staring us in the face all the time.’ He turned the card over and held it up for the others to see. ‘A cross marking “my floor” – the floor where it was all happening – and the words “wish you were here”. It was a good job we’d been warned, though. We had the biggest turntable ladder the Narbonne Corps de Sapeurs-Pompiers could provide, well able to reach up to the roof.’
‘The simplest ideas are always the best in the long run, eh, Aristide?’ Basking in the reflection of his subordinate’s glory, the Director rose and crossed to the cupboard again.
‘Communication was the big problem.’ Inspector Chambard turned to the other two as he held out his glass. ‘We had been told to stand by but not to interfere; to await orders. We had our man in there – posing as a chauffeur. But I don’t mind telling you, when we lost him I was worried.’
‘The chauffeur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself clutching at straws of information. ‘You have lost him?’
‘He was involved in an accident on the N9. The man is a fool. It seems he hit a sudden patch of sunlight, put on some dark glasses he’d found in the back of the car, and drove straight into a tree.’
‘He wasn’t …’
‘No. He will be out of hospital in a couple of weeks – which is more than you can say of the car.’
‘Your photographs proved most valuable.’ It was back to the man from the Ministry again. ‘Take this one … Pardon, Monsieur.’ He reached across and took one of the enlargements from the pile on the Director’s desk. ‘What you so delightfully refer to as the kitchen is in reality Doctor Furze’s laboratory. At a rough guess – and you probably know more about these things than I do – there must be over fifty kilogrammes of cocaine in each bowl.’
‘An on-the-street value of around seventy million francs.’
‘Grown in Columbia.’
‘Brought in through Spain and across the Pyrénées.’
‘Distributed to the larger centres in Paris and Marseilles via the coffins.’
‘Delivered to the smaller markets inside hollowed-out saucisses and saucissons.’
‘Whenever the time was ripe for a major arrival or distribution there was a convenient death at Château Morgue.’
‘Madame Schmuck would go into her routine. She was well equipped for it.’
‘She was born of a Spanish father and an Italian mother.’
‘They were both mime artists in a travelling theatre in Russia, she found herself on the stage from the word go. Old ladies were her speciality – even as a teenager.’
‘A change of clothes, a new set of coloured contact lenses, a different wig. It was right up her street.’
‘She would arrive at the Château, expire at a convenient moment, and the wheels would begin to turn. The “undertakers” would arrive and take her away. Then she would revert to being Madame Schmuck again.’
‘No one ever stops a hearse.’
‘Pouf!’ Inspector Chambard gave a snort. ‘To think, the number of times I have saluted that hearse! I have even held up the traffic so that it could get through.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sank back into his chair. The picture was suddenly all too clear. The van he’d seen in the car park on his arrival: it had probably been delivering a fresh batch of charcuterie that very evening. No wonder its disappearance had caused such consternation. He paled at the thought of what might have happened had the saucisses already been filled with cocaine. Both he and Pommes Frites would have been on a high from which there would have been no return.
He glanced at the other photographs. Blown up to twenty-five by twenty, it was easy to see the likeness between Frau Schmuck and the woman he’d first met in his room, and again on the stretcher. Except that was being wise after the event. It was amazing the difference a wig and a pair of coloured contact lenses could make. No wonder they’d all had thick calves – that was one thing she couldn’t change.
‘The other worrying thing about it was the fact that not only had Château Morgue developed into one of the biggest drug centres we’ve encountered for a long time – it was rapidly becoming a major threat to Western security.’
‘What started in a small way – the issuing of invitations to a few close friends – grew out of all proportion. Some very powerful people began using the Château, and not just for drugs either. Other perversions started being catered for. Herr Schmuck learnt his trade after the war when Germany was in ruins and people would do anything to scratch a living.’
‘His wife, Irma, was a more than willing assistant.’
‘The K.G.B. got to hear about it and began making offers to the Schmucks they couldn’t refuse. There were fears of blackmail.’
The Director stirred in his seat. Determined to make his presence felt, he broke into the duologue and took the photographs back. ‘Two things puzzle me, Pamplemousse. The first is, how did you manage to obtain these? I gather they show rooms on the uppermost floor, and yet clearly they were take from outside – through the windows. If you had recourse to the hiring of a helicopter, I fear trouble with Madame Grante. We shall need to prepare the ground carefully before we approach her.’
‘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 charcuterie, 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.’
There was a click and she was gone. The P.T.T. didn’t even leave time for an au revoir.
He arrived back at the table at the same time as the tureen of cotriade. Alongside it was a bowl of the traditional heart-shaped croûtes. He wondered if he could distract Chambard’s attention long enough to filch one. It would be a reminder of his times with Mrs. Cosgrove.
He glanced out of the window. ‘It looks as if we may have snow.’ It was true. There was a bitterly cold wind blowing from the north. People were hurrying by with their coat collars turned up.
He quickly transferred one of the croûtes onto his chair seat, holding it in place with his leg.
But his satisfaction was short-lived. As Inspector Chambard turned back he felt something push against him. Almost immediately there was a loud crunching noise from underneath the table.
Pommes Frites looked up at him gratefully. It was good to be back and to have such a thoughtful master, ever sensitive to his needs. The bowl of navarin d’agneau the chef had given him had been nice, but it tasted even better when it was followed by a piece of fried bread which had been well rubbed with garlic.
Life, in Pommes Frites’ humble opinion, had few better things to offer. And even though he could see that for some reason best known to himself, Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t entirely share his view, instinct told him that it was only a matter of time before he would.