Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint E-Book

Michael Bond

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Monsieur Pamplemousse Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 329

Beschreibung

Le Guide, France's premier gastronomic guide, is failing to whet the appetite of its audience in America. Bribed by the Director with offers of some time off, Monsieur Pamplemousse agrees to flex his literary muscles in a bid to address the problem by writing a play. The result is the ex-detective's directorial debut, complete with walk-on part for faithful bloodhound Pommes Frites. Everything rests on their special guest, Jay Corby, the acclaimed American food-critic, whose good opinion could change their transatlantic fortunes. But disaster strikes on opening night when a manoeuvre with a trapdoor causes Corby to storm out in a rage. Monsieur Pamplemousse must find him before he ruins everything for Le Guide. Once again he can rely on star sniffer dog Pommes Frites, who is hot on the trail of their only lead: a flimsy undergarment belonging to an exotic dancer they came across in a state of undress before the start of the show.

Leseprobe

Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint

MICHAEL BOND

Contents

Title PageCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENAdvertisementAbout the AuthorBy Michael BondCopyright

Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint

CHAPTER ONE

Véronique put a finger to her lips before gently opening the door. ‘If I were you,’ she whispered, ‘I would keep it low key. We’re a bit edgy today …’

Murmuring his thanks, Monsieur Pamplemousse signalled Pommes Frites to follow on behind as they tiptoed past the Director’s secretary into the Holy of Holies.

Glancing quickly round the room, he seated himself in a chair standing ready and waiting opposite Monsieur Leclercq’s vast desk. Pommes Frites, meanwhile, hastened to make himself comfortable on the deep pile carpet at his feet.

Clearly, Véronique had not been exaggerating. All the signs suggested that if anything she was understating the situation.

Normally a model of sartorial elegance, the Head of France’s premier gastronomic guide looked in a sorry state; his Marcel Lassance tie hung loose around his neck, the jacket of his André Bardot suit was draped higgledy-piggledy over the back of a chair, and although one sleeve of the Eglé bespoke shirt was neatly rolled back above his elbow, the other looked as though it might have been involved in a close encounter with a lawnmower … perhaps while adjusting the blades, although that was highly improbable.

Unlike the past President of France, Monsieur Jacques Chirac, who was credited with having once operated a forklift truck in an American brewery following a spell at Harvard University, Monsieur Pamplemousse doubted if the Director had ever got his hands dirty in the whole of his life. The generally accepted opinion was that he probably laid out the ground rules at an early age; demonstrating clearly to all and sundry that even such mundane tasks as changing a typewriter ribbon were beyond his powers, making sure that letters dictated during the course of the day arrived without fail on his desk ready for signing at the appointed time that same afternoon. The licking of envelopes would have been someone else’s responsibility, thus allowing his taste buds to remain unsullied by close contact with gum mucilage.

Discretion being the better part of valour, it was probably far better to hold his fire until a suitable moment arose. After what seemed like an eternity, and aware of a certain restiveness at his feet, he could stand it no longer.

‘You sent for us, Monsieur?’ he ventured.

‘Yes, yes, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director distantly. ‘But it was you I wished to have words with first of all.’

Pausing as he riffled through the pile of papers, he glanced pointedly at the figure on the floor.

‘Would you prefer it if Pommes Frites waited outside?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘No, no,’ said Monsieur Leclercq gruffly. ‘It’s just that … well, to put it bluntly, Aristide, you are rather earlier than I expected and I have important matters to discuss. My mind is in turmoil and it is hard to concentrate when your every move is subject to scrutiny by two pairs of eyes rather than one.’

Ever sensitive to the prevailing atmosphere, and sufficiently conversant with the use of certain key words, Pommes Frites settled down again and, with his tail at half-mast, pretended to busy himself with his ablutions, although clearly his heart wasn’t in it.

‘Your message sounded urgent,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That being the case, we came as quickly as we could. It just so happened the traffic lights were green all the way. Such a thing has never happened before.’

‘Aaah!’ His words fell on deaf ears as an exclamation from the Director indicated he had at long last found what he had been looking for.

He waved aloft a crumpled form between thumb and forefinger. ‘As you will doubtless remember, Pamplemousse, I recently issued a questionnaire to all members of staff.

‘I had in mind ascertaining their views on various matters of importance. It was all part of an exercise in reappraising our current position in this difficult world of ours. Running an operation the size of Le Guide is a costly exercise, and from time to time, in common with most large companies, we have to take stock of the most expensive item of all: namely, manpower. It was our accountants who first posed the question. Are we, they asked, always getting value for money from those who work in the field?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse essayed a non-committal response, wondering what could possibly be coming next and fearing the worst.

‘Cast your mind back,’ continued the Director, ‘and you may also recall the very first question on the list.’

‘As a member of France’s premier food guide, what are the three things uppermost in your mind at all times?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

In spite of himself, the Director looked impressed. ‘That is correct, Pamplemousse. Which makes your answer, “Sex, money, and still more sex,” singularly disappointing, even by present day standards.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. ‘But …’ half rising from his chair, he held out a free hand, ‘may I see that form, Monsieur?’

The Director smoothed the piece of paper carefully on a blotting pad before handing it over. ‘I must confess, I was so incensed by your answer I screwed it into a ball and threw it into the waste bin. Unfortunately, my hand was trembling so I missed the target and it landed in a vase of flowers. The cleaning lady retrieved it for me later that day and left it on my desk to dry.’

‘Where would we be without the cleaning ladies of this world?’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse, sinking back into his chair. ‘Hortense is a treasure and no mistake.’

‘Is that her name?’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Speaking from experience,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, savouring a minor victory, ‘I venture to suggest the answer which so upset you probably reflects the view of the vast majority of the French population, the younger ones in particular. It is a characteristic of our nation that its citizens take the business of living and all its many and varied ramifications seriously.’

Holding the paper up to the light, he studied it carefully. ‘Having said that, I must inform Monsieur that this is not my handwriting …’

‘Not your handwriting, Pamplemousse?’ boomed the Director. ‘If it is not your handwriting, then how did it come to grace a form which has your name at the top?’

‘That,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse grimly, ‘is a question I shall address as soon as possible.’

A joke was a joke, but there were limits. He strongly suspected Glandier. The schoolboy in him was never far away. Blessed with a distorted sense of humour, his colleague’s prowess as a performer of conjuring tricks at staff parties all too often extended itself to other forms of trickery when he was at a loose end.

‘I accept what you say, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘albeit with a certain amount of reluctance.’

‘It is an area where there are those who say I am accident prone,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Prone you may be while it is happening, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq sternly, ‘but more often than not I fear it is no accident.

‘That is why I fell victim to a jest that was in very poor taste. I am relieved to hear my faith in you is not entirely misplaced. The correct answer, as I am sure you will agree, is first and foremost the well-being of Le Guide, closely followed by carbon footprints and global warming.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse remained silent. He wondered how many of his colleagues lived up to such high ideals. As ever, the Director was out of touch with reality. Speaking personally, pleased though he was to know Monsieur Leclercq’s faith in him had been restored, he could barely lay claim to always observing the first item on the list, let alone the other two.

‘The phrase “carbon footprint” does seem to be on everybody’s lips these days,’ he said, noncommittally. ‘Next year it will doubtless be something else. These things tend to have a limited shelf life. The journals seize on whatever is currently in vogue and work it to death.’

‘All creatures, no matter what their size, leave a carbon footprint,’ said Monsieur Leclercq reprovingly. ‘Whether by accident or design, it is a God-given fact of life and it is something that will not change. One must never forget that, Aristide.

‘Centipedes, ants, earwigs, even the humble escargot … they all have their place in the scheme of things. They arrive on this earth hard-wired from the word go.’

Picking up on the phrase ‘hard-wired’, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. The words had a definite transatlantic ring to them. It suggested Monsieur Leclercq had just returned from one of his periodic trips to the United States. They often boded ill.

‘I grant you,’ continued the Director, ‘that given its overall dimensions in terms of height, length and width, an escargot’s carbon footprint alongside that of, say, an elephant, is hard to evaluate.’

Pausing to sweep the pile of papers to one side, he leant back in his chair.

‘However, it brings me to another matter currently exercising my mind, and which happens to be one of the reasons why I summoned you here today.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse listened with only half an ear. Le Guide’s logo – two escargots rampant – was a constantly recurring concern of the Director and there was little more he could contribute to the subject. Leaving aside the use of the words ‘hardwired’, the phrase ‘one of the reasons’ was also unsettling. It sounded as though there might be a whole catalogue of them.

Monsieur Leclercq picked up a silver paperweight cast in the shape of the subject under discussion.

‘Apart from the fact that, strictly speaking, our logo is no longer politically correct, in many respects it no longer reflects the kind of dynamic image we need to project in this day and age, when the emphasis everywhere is on speed. This is particularly true when it comes to our readers on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. In my experience, they are mostly blind to the humble helix pomotia’s virtues as a delicacy. Following considerable research, I have yet to see escargots feature on any American menu.

‘However, that is by the by. The inescapable truth is that sales of Le Guide in the United States of America have plummeted over the past year.’

To prove his point he held up a graph showing a long red line which not only dipped alarmingly as it neared the right-hand edge of the paper, but disappeared entirely before reaching it.

‘We are not alone, of course. Michelin have had their problems too, although they are fighting back. As you know, their logo has recently been updated. Monsieur Bibendum has shed a roll of fat and is looking all the better for it. He is now a leaner, fitter image of his former roly-poly self; and in so doing he has become an example to us all.’

‘That kind of thing can backfire,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘My understanding is that many people in America set great store by rolls of fat. They call them “love handles”.’

‘Is that so, Pamplemousse?’ said the Director distastefully. ‘I am happy to take your word for it.

‘Be that as it may, our chief rival in the United States is a publication called Zagat, a guide that relies for its information on reports sent in by readers, who offer up their experiences when dining out. Given that more often than not they dwell on the size and quantity of fried potatoes, it is little wonder many of them have a weight problem.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his pulse begin to quicken. Could it be that the Director was dangling a promotional carrot before his eyes? Head of the long-mooted American office, perhaps?

There would be snags, of course, but it was an exciting prospect. Pommes Frites would probably need to have a chip listing all his relevant details implanted somewhere or other on his person before being allowed into the country … that could be why the Director was choosing his words with care. He would know, of course, that Monsieur Pamplemousse would never contemplate going to America without him. It must also be the reason why he had been invited along to the meeting.

That apart, he wasn’t at all sure how his wife would take the news. Knowing Doucette, she would be worried about what to wear for a start.

He tried dipping his toes into the water. ‘For some while now Pommes Frites and I have been metaphorically girding our respective loins ready for our next assignment …’ he began, hastily cutting short what he had been about to say as he realised the Director was still dwelling on the subject of snails.

‘I fear the worst, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Storm clouds are already gathering on the horizon for the gastropods of this world.’

‘They come ready equipped to withstand any amount of sudden downpours,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘It is not that aspect of it which bothers me,’ said the Director. ‘It is our image.’

‘In that case,’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘could we not generate a little more publicity? A spectacular win in the field of international sport, perhaps? In Grande-Bretagne they hold an annual World Championship Race for snails. Last year’s winner completed the 33cm course in 2 minutes 49 seconds and won a tankard full of lettuce leaves.’

‘Hardly headline news, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq dubiously. ‘In the field of sport it hardly ranks alongside the furore that accompanied the first 4-minute mile.

‘Besides, a lot can happen to an escargot even in that short distance. A passing blackbird could swoop down and make off with it long before it crossed the finishing line, and then where would we be?

‘All that apart, my understanding is that supplies are dwindling. Many now come from as far away as Bulgaria. The climate changes we have been experiencing of late do nothing to help matters. The winters last much longer and they are growing colder. Escargots take anything up to six hours to copulate and even then it is very much a hit and miss affair.’

‘I suppose,’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘for an escargot, life is a matter of swings and roundabouts. Could we not use science to help them along? A little Viagra sprinkled on their lettuce leaves, perhaps?’

‘I think not.’ The Director gave a shudder. ‘Who knows what might be unleashed?’

‘In that case, perhaps it is time we changed our logo?’

‘Change our logo?’ boomed the Director. ‘That is out of the question. Our Founder set great store by it. He would turn in his grave.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse took the opportunity to glance at the portrait of Le Guide’s Founder on the wall above the drinks cupboard to his left. Depending on the light, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval had an uncanny way of reflecting the prevailing atmosphere, but for once it offered no clues. Bathed in sunshine streaming through the vast picture window behind the Director, he looked extremely non-committal, almost as though he had washed his hands of whatever it was that was exercising Monsieur Leclercq’s mind.

A passing cloud momentarily threw a shadow across the Founder’s face, causing Monsieur Pamplemousse to decide ‘fed up to the back teeth’ might be a better description. Or, could it be that he was issuing some kind of a warning? It was hard to say. All the same, he couldn’t help but agree with the Director. They must tread carefully.

‘At all costs we must avoid doing anything untoward,’ he said out loud. ‘It would be a breach of faith.’

‘Exactement,’ said the Director, completely oblivious to the other’s thoughts. ‘However, we do have a fundamental problem in that escargots are, by their very nature, slow-moving creatures. From birth they are hardly equipped to exceed the speed limit wherever they happen to be going. They lack the get up and go spirit one associates with our friends on the other side of the Atlantic. Overtaking another escargot is not something that would ever occur to them. Pile-ups would be rife.’

‘Could you not add wheels to the ones on our logo?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Or perhaps even mount them on a motorised scooter? The suggestion of exhaust fumes and the wearing of goggles along with bending over the handlebars would create an illusion of speed. Either that, or you could have them make use of one of those exercise machines with an endless belt. I believe they are very popular in American homes, and such an image could help no end with their carbon footprints.’

‘This is no joking matter, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq severely. ‘However, I do congratulate you for putting your finger on exactly the right spot as always. Mention of exercise machines happens to be particularly apposite at this juncture. I have already been toying with the idea of converting the bar area in the canteen into a gymnasium.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse sank back in his chair. It was all much worse than he had pictured. Such an idea would go down like a lead balloon. Strike action would be the order of the day once word got around.

‘As you are well aware, Pamplemousse,’ continued the Director, ‘this is not the first time I have had to draw your attention to the fact that your own carbon footprint leaves much to be desired. As for Pommes Frites … his paws appear to have reached danger level. I hate to think how many units of wine he consumes on his travels.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director. How could he?

‘With respect, Monsieur,’ he said, taking up the cudgels on behalf of his friend and mentor, and with dreams of a temporary posting to America fading fast, ‘dogs do not recognise units. I doubt if Pommes Frites knows the meaning of the word. As for the size of his paws; may I remind you that they are attached to his legs and he has four of those in all. That being so, and notwithstanding the size of the whole, I venture to suggest his carbon footprint must compare favourably with the average escargot. It is like the old Citroën Light Fifteen. That, too, had a wheel at each corner and was much prized by the Paris Police for its weight distribution—’

‘Legs … paws …’ broke in Monsieur Leclercq, ‘they are both problem areas and neither of you are alone in that respect.

‘It is another area that is of concern to the accountants. The group insurance rate for our inspectors is the highest for the whole organisation. Only the other day, Madame Grante reminded me of the fact that according to the Association of Insurance Actuaries, the life expectancy of an average food inspector is less than that of a garbage collector in Outer Mongolia … her memo made depressing reading.’

‘Most of Madame Grante’s memos make depressing reading,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, it is all very well for her. She hardly eats more than a mouse on a diet; her own carbon footprint doesn’t bear thinking about. It must be the size of a flea’s.

‘As for those of us out on the road, sampling dishes across the length and breadth of France, I grant you weight is an occupational hazard. Two meals a day, week in and week out, may sound like a dream occupation to most people, but it can be quite the reverse. I count myself fortunate in having Pommes Frites always at my side, in a state of constant readiness to help out when required.

‘Furthermore, if I may say so, the Association of Insurance Actuaries fails to take account of the fact that the “Silent Forks” column of our staff magazine, commemorating those who have passed away, has, over the years, been entirely made up of staff who were desk-bound. Since I joined the company no inspector has yet shed his mortal coil during the course of duty.’

It was a long and spirited speech, and even Pommes Frites looked up admiringly at his master when he finally came to an end.

‘Yet is the key word, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq mildly.

‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘in order to ensure I am not the first, I should, for the second time in my life, take early retirement.’

Clearly, he had struck a nerve. The Director went pale at the thought.

‘You mustn’t even consider it, Aristide,’ he said. ‘Certainly not at this present juncture. I would hate anything to happen to you, and I am only speaking for your own good. Which is why …’ he began playing nervously with the logo, ‘which is the main reason why I have called you in at this early hour.’

The fact that from time to time Monsieur Leclercq had been using his given name hadn’t escaped Monsieur Pamplemousse’s notice. It was an old ploy. Get rid of various irksome matters first, undermine the opposition’s confidence with threats of possible reprisals over minor matters, leaving them wondering what would happen next. Then, and only then, soften your approach. The Director was a dab hand at it. Not for nothing was he a product of a French grande école.

If past form was anything to go by, the true reason for their being summoned was about to be revealed.

‘What is the best thing that ever happened to you, Aristide?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq, settling back in his chair once again.

Momentarily thrown, and sensing he might unwittingly be trapped into doing something he didn’t want to do, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave careful consideration to his response.

‘Leaving aside the obvious things, like meeting my dear wife, I would say the moment when I retired from the Sûreté and they gave me Pommes Frites as a leaving present.’

‘And the worst?’

‘The day in the South of France when he disappeared into the Nice sewerage system and I thought he was lost for ever. If you remember, Monsieur, Doucette and I were taking a holiday in Juan-les-Pins. We had been planning to spend it in Le Touquet, but you very kindly suggested the change in return for picking up a painting in Nice on behalf of Madame Leclercq.

‘It got off to a bad start when we had to witness a performance of West Side Story, given by the mixed infants at a nearby Russian School. Then, you may recall, that very same night a dismembered body was washed up outside our hotel, and from then on it was downhill all the way.’

Monsieur Leclercq gave a shudder. ‘Please don’t remind me, Pamplemousse,’ he said. ‘There are some things I would much sooner forget.’

‘When Pommes Frites finally emerged,’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘he wasn’t exactly smelling of roses.’

‘May I ask what is the second thing which springs to mind, Aristide?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq casually.

Sensing the other’s disappointment and putting two and two together, Monsieur Pamplemousse essayed a stab in the dark. ‘Undoubtedly the day when, quite by chance, we bumped into each other in the street,’ he said. ‘That, too, came about through Pommes Frites. We were taking a walk together.’

Monsieur Leclercq looked relieved. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you all these years, Aristide,’ he said simply. ‘It was a happy chance that led us to meet as we did.’

‘One turns a corner,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and one’s whole life changes. I certainly have no cause for regret.’

‘I have a big favour to ask of you, Aristide.’

‘Monsieur has only to ask,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, privately wishing the Director would get on with whatever it was he had in mind.

‘Glancing through your P27,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I see that, apart from the many accomplishments you list, particularly those acquired during your time in the police force, weapon training and so on, you are clearly not without literary aspirations.’

‘A great deal of my time in the Paris Sûreté was spent writing reports,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In some respects it is a very bureaucratic organisation. One always endeavoured to make them as clear and succinct as possible; marshalling the facts to prove the point in such a way as to leave no room for doubt. Defending lawyers are past masters in the art of ferreting out any loophole in the law.’

‘Have you ever thought of taking your writing more seriously?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘Since joining Le Guide all I have done is contribute a few articles to L’Escargot.’

‘The staff magazine would have been all the poorer without them,’ said the Director. ‘I particularly enjoyed your last piece, “Whither le coq au vin”.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse was beginning to wonder where the conversation was leading. It felt as though they were getting nowhere very fast.

‘Apart from one or two outlying districts in Burgundy,’ he said, ‘the dish is becoming more and more of a rarity. Its preparation is time consuming and, as you wisely remarked earlier, the emphasis everywhere these days is on speed. As for my taking up writing, that also requires time. And thinking time is becoming a rare luxury these days.’

‘That being the case, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘how would you feel if I were to grant you a few weeks unofficial leave? Over and above your normal quota, of course,’ he added hastily. ‘Both you and Pommes Frites have been very busy on extra curricular activities of late. You could do with some quality time at home.’

‘I must admit,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that when I first joined Le Guide I pictured leading a more tranquil life. In many respects, as Doucette reminded me only the other day, it has been quite the reverse.

‘There was that unfortunate affair involving your wife’s Uncle Caputo. His connections with the Mafia must be a constant source of worry to you.

‘Prior to that there was the case of the poisoned chocolates … If you remember, Pommes Frites accidentally overdosed on some aphrodisiac tablets and ran amok among the canine guests in the Pommes d’Or hotel. It’s a wonder people still take their pets with them when they stay there.

‘Then, more recently, there was your unfortunate encounter with the young lady who was masquerading as a nun on the flight back from America. The one who invited you to join the Mile High Club …’

‘Please, Pamplemousse, I do not wish to be reminded of these things.’ Monsieur Leclercq held up his hand. ‘You have yet to answer my question.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse chose his words with care. ‘The suggestion is not without its attractions, Monsieur. On the other hand, I find it hard to picture being idle for that length of time …’

‘Oh, you won’t be idle, Aristide,’ broke in the Director. ‘Not at this particular juncture. You can rest assured on that score.’

There it was again! Monsieur Pamplemousse’s eyes narrowed. ‘When you use the word “juncture”, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘what exactly do you mean?’

‘Really, Aristide …’ Monsieur Leclercq brushed aside the question impatiently, much as he might dispose of an errant fly about to make a forced landing in his glass of d’Yquem. ‘The word “juncture” simply underlines the fact that at this point in time we have reached a moment critique in our fortunes. A window of opportunity has presented itself, which, if all goes well, will provide us with a golden opportunity to hit a home run.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse winced. Anyone less likely than the Director to hit a home run in the accepted sense of the word would be hard to image.

‘Am I to take it, Monsieur, that you have a solution in mind, and that I can help in some way?’

‘That,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘sums the whole thing up in the proverbial nutshell.

‘I am not normally superstitious, Aristide,’ he continued, ‘but when I woke this morning and found not one but two blackbirds perched on my bedroom window sill, I feared the worst. I mistrust one blackbird, but two …

‘Then, when my wife explained to me that not only was it a good omen, but a singularly rare one at that, I felt a sudden surge of excitement. It was a case of cause and effect. Chantal’s enthusiasm was contagious. On my way into the office this morning the way ahead and the solution to our problems in America became clear.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse exchanged glances with Pommes Frites as the Director crossed to the door, made sure it was properly shut, then returned to his desk and, having phoned Véronique to ensure they were not disturbed, sat back in his chair and beamed at them.

The preliminaries off his chest so to speak, he was starting to look positively rejuvenated, almost as though a great weight had been lifted from his mind.

‘I knew I could rely on you, Aristide,’ he said. ‘In fact …’ breaking off, he rose to his feet again and headed for the drinks cabinet.

‘I think it calls for a celebration. Some of your favourite Gosset champagne, perhaps? Or shall I open a bottle of the Roullet très hors age cognac?’ His hand hovered over the glasses. ‘The choice is yours. Which is it to be?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. He was unaware of having even remotely agreed to anything. ‘I hope you won’t think I am being difficult,’ he said, ‘but without knowing exactly what we are celebrating it is hard to reach a decision.’

He should have known better.

For a brief moment Monsieur Leclercq looked suitably chastened. ‘You are absolutely right, Aristide,’ he exclaimed. ‘I am so excited by the turn of events I am getting ahead of myself.’

He struck one of his Napoleonic poses; a pose honed to perfection over the years by taking in the view from his window of the Emperor’s last resting place beneath the golden dome of the nearby Hôtel des Invalides.

‘Pamplemousse,’ he said grandly, ‘I have a plan of campaign! It is my wish to run it up the flagpole and see if, in your view, it flies.

‘If your answer is in the affirmative, then it is really a question of pulling all the right levers, and for that we shall need what is known as a road map.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily opted for a glass of champagne. It was a good buck-you-up at any time of the day or night, and he suddenly felt in need of one.

* * *

‘Monsieur Leclercq has a plan?’ repeated Doucette over dinner. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘It is what he calls a “road map”, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I must say I was a bit sceptical myself at first.’

‘How many weeks will it take you?’

‘That all depends on how many dead ends I come across,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse vaguely. He toyed with the remains of his dessert. ‘It needs to be in place before the start of the racing season in Deauville.’

‘It would never do to miss that,’ said Doucette dryly.

‘It is all mixed up with the annual staff party at his summer residence,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As always, wives are invited too, only this year, if all goes well, there will be an extra guest; a very important one.’

‘July? That’s over two months away.’

‘Just think,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘All that time at home.’ He spooned the remains of the dessert onto his plate. ‘Once again, Couscous, tell me the recipe for this delicious concoction. What is it called? Crème bachique?’

‘Bacchus Delight,’ said Doucette, ‘is a baked custard made with half a litre or so of Sauternes, six egg yolks, four ounces of sugar and a touch of cinnamon.’

‘But made with love,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That is the most important ingredient, Couscous.’

He gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘It is good to be home. White asparagus from the Landes with sauce mousseline – one of my favourites; sole, pan-fried in butter, seasoned with parsley and lemon and served with tiny new potatoes; and now Bacchus Delight … what more could any man wish for? Simple dishes, all of them, but as I have so often said in the past, anyone can follow a recipe. It takes love and understanding to bring a meal to full fruition. It is what is known as “the passion”.’

‘If you and Pommes Frites are planning to be around for two whole months, don’t expect to eat like this every day of the week,’ said Doucette, as she bustled around clearing the table. ‘Besides, there are all sorts of things that need attending to. The window boxes could do with a thorough going over for a start. I will make a list …’

‘First things first,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse hurriedly. ‘It is a matter of priorities.’

‘In that case,’ said Doucette, ‘I suggest you start by telling me exactly what Monsieur Leclercq has in mind.’

‘Ah!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. ‘Now that, Couscous, is going to take time. Time, and a measure of understanding. Perhaps, as an aid to digesting it all, before I begin we should open another bottle of Meursault? It involves my writing a play.’

Pommes Frites looked from one to the other before settling down in a corner of the room. A good deal of the conversation that day had gone over his head, but he knew the signs. Weighing up the pros and cons and coming down heavily on the side of the cons, it seemed to him his master might well be in need of support before the night was out.

CHAPTER TWO

The project began slowly at first. The first three days were a total blank. On day four, fed up with staring fruitlessly into space and in need of fresh air, Monsieur Pamplemousse sought inspiration from the statue of Marcel Aymé, the top half of which protruded from the brickwork outside their apartment block in Montmartre.

But the late author of The Man Who Walked Through Walls – the story of a humble bank clerk whose exploits had the police at their wits’ end, remained singularly unmoved, as well he might. Incarcerated for posterity by his own creation, he clearly had enough problems of his own.

There were times when Monsieur Pamplemousse wished he’d never agreed to take on the task; days which felt as though they would never end, and when he did finally put his laptop to bed, he found himself lying awake in a cold sweat, convinced he would never make the deadline.

He knew he wasn’t easy to live with. Conversation at the table was minimal and even Pommes Frites took to giving him funny looks when they were out for a walk. In short, communication with those around him was at a low ebb.

Then one morning, aided and abetted by his subconscious, the muse struck and he woke with the germ of an idea in the back of his mind. Hadn’t it often been like that in the old days when he was a police officer? Just when things were at their blackest, a glimmer of light appeared at the end of the tunnel.

Almost imperceptibly, things began to pick up. At first he was hardly aware of it, but gradually one day merged with another, the days became weeks, and the weeks turned first of all into a month, then two.

Eventually, one day in early July, he was able to sit back and relax.

‘Fini!’ he announced. ‘Mission accomplished!’

It had been a close call and no mistake. Pommes Frites, without knowing quite why, wagged his tail. Doucette fetched a bottle of champagne.

‘Thank goodness for that!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you. I really didn’t.’

‘I don’t any more, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have let it all out.’

It was true. He felt drained.

‘At least we have had you at home for a while,’ said Doucette. ‘But really, Aristide, I don’t know what the Director would do without you.’

‘I don’t know what we would do without Monsieur Leclercq,’ countered Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I must call him straight away and give him the good news. There is still a lot to be done and not much time left.’

And now, two weeks later, here he was, in the grounds of the Leclercqs’ summer residence in Normandy, about to face his biggest test of all.

For a moment his misgivings returned. Had he overstretched – not just himself, but the others too, most of all Monsieur Leclercq, who would be bearing the brunt?

Par exemple, would there be problems with the trapdoors? Given the lack of rehearsal time they could prove hazardous. Time would tell. In a couple of hours or so, for better or worse, it would all be over.

In an effort to take his mind off a feeling of impending doom in the pit of his stomach, he gazed at the scene spread out in front of him.

Nestling in a wooded pocket of the Pays d’Auge area midway between Deauville and Pont l’Evêque, the Leclercqs’ picturesque black and white half-timbered house was reached by a long driveway that wound its way down the hillside. Apart from the occasional drone of a passing light aircraft towing a banner advertising the forthcoming start of the racing season in Deauville, it could have been in another world; a million kilometres away from civilisation.

In the months ahead, the same aircraft would doubtless pass overhead highlighting other seasonal attractions as they came and went; golf matches, international bridge tournaments, jazz concerts, and later in the year, the annual film festival. But for the time being peace reigned; the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and as a string quartet struck up a lively tune, a feeling of enchantment set in.

The Director’s party was an annual event, a champagne occasion, and one Monsieur Pamplemousse had experienced many times before, but even so, the sheer perfection of the surroundings was hard to take in at a glance. Somehow it always felt as though he had taken a step back in time to a more leisurely, more mannered age, with everyone suitably dressed for the occasion.

Reaching into a hip pocket, he withdrew his Leica C-Lux2, and was about to record the scene for posterity when he heard the sound of squealing tyres somewhere in the distance.

Hastily pressing the button, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced up and was just in time to see a car sweep through the wrought-iron entrance gates. Clearly the driver was in a hurry.

Weaving its way past weeping willows and beech trees, and around the freshly tonsured lawns before skirting a Norman dovecote, it followed the path of a stream that eventually cascaded into a pond the size of a small lake. Even the ducks had a superior look on their faces as they floated gently to and fro with never a feather out of place.

As the car finally disappeared from view behind a group of red rose bushes near the house – Danse duFeu, if he remembered correctly, and in full bloom for the occasion; the head gardener’s life would not have been worth living had they not been – Monsieur Pamplemousse came back down to earth.