Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution E-Book

Michael Bond

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

Seitenzahl: 316

Beschreibung

When Monsieur Pamplemousse got an urgent summons from the Director of Le Guide, he knew that there was trouble at the top. His faithful canine companion, Pommes Frites, noticed it too.But neither of them expected that the trouble would involve a nun who was in the habit of joining the Mile High Club or a full-scale smear campaign targeting Le Guide's credibility as France's première restaurant and hotel guide. Someone has been spreading worrying rumours among the staff and infiltrating the company files - awarding hotels prizes for bedbugs and praising egg and chips signature dishes. Even Pommes Frites has become a victim of the assault.It could all spell the ruin for Le Guide, but Pamplemousse is on the case.

Leseprobe

Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution

MICHAEL BOND

Contents

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

Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution

CHAPTER ONE

‘Merde!’

The moment Monsieur Pamplemousse placed his ID card against a brass plate set in the wall outside Le Guide’s headquarters and nothing happened, he knew it was going to be ‘one of those days’.

By rights, there should have been a discreet buzz, followed by a faint click as a small oak door let into one of a much larger pair swung open on its well-oiled hinges, thus allowing free passage to any member of staff wishing to enter the august premises on foot. Instead of which … what happened? Nothing!

He tried repeating the process, this time holding the card in place rather longer than before, but again to no avail.

Looking, if possible, even more upset than his master, Pommes Frites lowered himself gently onto the cold pavement, stared at the offending piece of metal as though daring it to misbehave for a third time, then raised his head and gave vent to a loud howl.

To anyone close by, the mournful tone would have said it all, but it was lunchtime and the rue Fabert was deserted. That being so, and having decided knocking on the door would be a waste of both time and knuckles, Monsieur Pamplemousse applied a shoulder to it.

For all the effect it had, he might have been paying a surprise visit to Fort Knox with a view to enquiring how things were going with their gold reserves. There was what the powers that be might have called a negative response.

Nursing his right shoulder, the very same shoulder that had performed yeoman service whenever called upon to act as a battering ram during his years with the Paris Sûreté, he had to admit he found the situation extremely annoying.

He wouldn’t have minded quite so much had he not received a message from the Director summoning him back to headquarters tout de suite.

His first thought had been ‘Not again!’ followed in quick succession by ‘What is it this time?’ and ‘If it’s that important, why isn’t he using the word “Estragon”; Le Guide’s standard code word for use in an emergency?’

He had spent most of the journey turning it over in his mind. The last time he had received such a summons had been when they were called in to offer advice on a possible terrorist attack on the food chain. It had all been very Hush Hush.

Once again, no reason had been given, but by comparison, the latest message – DROP EVERYTHING. PLEASE RETURN TO BASE IMMEDIATELY – was positively verbose. Although it imparted a sense of urgency, the use of the word ‘Please’ – not a word that normally figured large in Monsieur Leclercq’s vocabulary – was unusual to say the least. It struck a personal note.

It was not as though he had wasted any time getting there. Setting off from Rodez in the Midi-Pyrénées at a ridiculously early hour, he had driven the 600 kilometres to Paris almost non-stop. He hadn’t even been home, but instead headed straight for the office.

To arrive and find they were locked out was akin to arriving at a theatre all set for an evening’s entertainment, only to discover it was the wrong night. Both were equally dispiriting.

An even more frustrating aspect of the whole affair was that it had meant cutting short his current tour of duty. On the principle of saving the best until last, he had been looking forward to rounding it off in the small town of Laguiole, home to both the eponymous cutlery firm and the equally renowned restaurant Bras, famous for the patron’s wondrous ways with the flora of the region.

Anticipating a brief stop at the former to do some Christmas shopping for his wife, he had pictured heading up the Puech du Suquet, a small mountain just outside the town, arriving at the futuristic restaurant perched like a space capsule on its launch pad at the very top, in good time for lunch.

Overlooking the vast Aubrac plateau, there was very little in the way of natural growth that didn’t find its way into Monsieur Bras’s kitchen sooner or later. Wild herbs, fennel, sorrel, celeriac, coriander, garlic, all were grist to his mill.

It was the kind of gastronomic experience that made the time spent away from home, driving for hours on end and putting up in strange hotels, abundantly worthwhile.

Given that it was near the end of October and the hotel and its restaurant would soon be closing down for the winter months, the chance wouldn’t come his way again until next March at the earliest, if then.

In all probability, anonymity being one of the keywords of Le Guide, he would find himself assigned to a very different part of France. Word travelled fast and it didn’t do to become too well known in any one area.

His Cupillard Rième watch showed almost 12.45. Even now he might be tucking in to what Michel Bras called his Gargouillou – a warm salad of over twenty young vegetables, each separately steamed before being brought together in total harmony. The ingredients varied with the season of course, and no two days were alike, but they were always as fresh as they could possibly be. However, there was no point in dwelling on it.

He stared the massive oak doors. What now? He couldn’t even make use of his mobile phone. The battery had gone flat halfway through his tour and he had left his charger at home.

Security at Le Guide’s offices in the 16tharrondissement of Paris was a serious matter at the best of times, but especially so during the latter part of the year. Staff were almost wholly engaged in the mammoth task of collating reports and information concerning some ten thousand or so hotels and restaurants across the length and breadth of lehexagon; afterwards checking and rechecking, first the galleys, then the page proofs and finally the guide itself.

In the months leading up to spring publication, secrecy was paramount. Anyone caught breaking the rule ran the risk of instant dismissal.

All the same, totally denying him entry seemed to be carrying things a little too far.

Wondering if, as occasionally happened with plastic cards, continuous use, or even long periods spent in juxtaposition with each other, had brought about a failure of the magnetic strip, he was about to reach for his handkerchief in the forlorn hope that a quick rub might do the trick when, to his surprise, the door in front of him swung open.

Pommes Frites immediately froze as they found themselves confronted by a man in uniform; a uniform, moreover, emblazoned with an alien emblem: BRINKS, a well-known security company. To complete the picture, he was wearing the kind of reflective sunglasses beloved of American traffic police.

‘Looking for something, bud?’

‘Oui,’ replied Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Business?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse held up his card. ‘I happen to work here.’

The man reached out and took it from him.

‘Ident?’

‘Pamplemousse.’ Given that his name was clearly embossed in thick black letters alongside his photograph, it seemed a somewhat pointless exercise. He was hardly likely to risk making up a false one.

‘Grapefruit, huh?’

He felt rather than saw the other’s eyes boring into his as comparisons between the image on the card and the real thing were made. For a brief moment, as the man held it up to the light, turning it first one way and then another, Monsieur Pamplemousse derived a certain vicarious pleasure in picturing a holographic effect coming into play. Ideally, in his mind’s eye it would be the sticking out of a tongue. However, no such luck.

The man’s face remained utterly impassive as he turned away, withdrew a mobile from his hip pocket and held a brief conversation.

‘OK this time,’ he said, grudgingly holding the door open. ‘But you better go get an update on your card. It needs eyeball identification installed. You can get it done in back of reception.’

Feeling his hackles rise, Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at his reflection in the man’s sunglasses for a full ten seconds, long enough for his eyeballs to be permanently embedded in the other’s memory. Comparisons with attempting to enter Fort Knox were clearly not so wide of the mark after all.

Signalling Pommes Frites to follow on, he retrieved his card and passed through the opening, wondering as he did so if his friend and mentor would receive similar treatment. One glance was sufficient. Pommes Frites’ tail was standing bolt upright – a warning sign if ever there was one, and it proved more than sufficient.

Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he detected the security guard mouthing the words trottoir royale.

At least, despite the phoney American accent and the glasses, it meant he was sufficiently well versed in the French language to know the slang phrase for mongrel. He hoped for the man’s sake his friend and mentor hadn’t registered it. He was sensitive to such things.

Fearing the worst, he glanced back over his shoulder.

Normally the most docile of creatures, Pommes Frites was rooted to the spot, staring up the guard as though daring him to make a move.

Rather than call out, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a brief whistle through his teeth and immediately regretted it as a series of high-pitched bleeps came from inside one of his jacket pockets.

The man from BRINKS heard it too and beckoned. ‘Hey, you … let me see that.’

Noting the other’s hesitation, he added: ‘You wanna go on in or don’t you?’

With a show of reluctance, Monsieur Pamplemousse retraced his steps, feeling inside the pocket for the offending object attached to his keyring. It went against the grain to afford the man any kind of pleasure, on the other hand he wouldn’t be sorry to see the back of it.

A birthday present from Pommes Frites, it had turned out to be more trouble than it was worth, reacting as it did to all manner of sounds: ice cubes being emptied into a glass before going to bed at night, the playing of accordions on the Metro, and on one never to be forgotten occasion, during a violin solo at a concert. He still went hot and cold at the thought. Squeaking doors were another hazard; the oven door in their own apartment never failed to trigger it off. Doucette was always complaing about it.

It seemed a golden opportunity; one too good to miss.

The guard held out his hand. ‘Gimme.’

‘You are absolutely right,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I congratulate you on your powers of observation.’

Wondering if he hadn’t perhaps laid it on a bit too thick, he was about to remove the alarm when he heard a deep-throated rumble from somewhere nearby. Looking down, he realised it was coming from Pommes Frites His top lip had somehow curled itself upwards into the distinct shape of a letter S, revealing a row of incisors, snow-white and razor sharp from much gnawing of bones over the years.

‘Are you sure you want it?’ he asked.

‘Forget it!’ With a show of considerable ill grace, the security guard turned on his heels, unlocked the door to the tiny office just inside the gate, and disappeared from view, slamming it shut behind him.

Old Rambaud, the gatekeeper, must either be ill or on leave, for he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the new man was a temporary replacement.

Monsieur Pamplemousse sincerely hoped so. Looking at the state of Rambaud’s window box, the sooner he came back to work the better.

The second thing that struck him as he led the way across the inner courtyard was that the fountain in the middle wasn’t working. Apart from the annual spring clean, the only occasion he could remember that happening was when some joker introduced a piranha fish to the pool, nearly frightening a young secretary to death one lunchtime when she dangled a hand in the water while eating her sandwiches.

The next thing to catch his attention was the fact that the Director’s top of the range black Citroën was missing from its normal parking place outside the private entrance to his quarters. In its place, occupying about a tenth of the space, short, squat and looking for all the world like a child’s toy, stood a tiny Smart car.

It was something else unheard of. The Director’s parking space was sacrosanct. No other member of staff would normally dare to make use of it.

Unless … he dismissed the thought. Even if the Director was on one of his periodic economy drives, it was inconceivable that the car belonged to him. The Citroën was his pride and joy; a status symbol, it would be the last thing to go. The Smart car wasn’t even properly positioned. Monsieur Leclercq was a stickler for things being in their correct place, particularly when it came to parking.

As he drew near, he also registered the fact that someone had sprayed the words PUTAIN PÉAGE in black paint across the car’s rear window. Protesting against autoroute charges was one thing, but there was no excuse for spraying such a crudely impractical message on another person’s car. It was an act of sheer vandalism.

Quickening his pace, he headed up the steps leading to the main entrance, steadying the plate-glass revolving doors momentarily with one hand in case Pommes Frites’ tail, now waving to and fro in anticipation of better times ahead, jammed the mechanism as they passed through.

There was an unfamiliar girl on duty in reception and her greeting struck him as being perfunctory to say the least. She seemed to be making a point of not asking to see his pass. The question of registering his eyeballs didn’t arise.

That again, was unusual. In Monsieur Leclercq’s book, the first person a visitor came into contact with, whether by phone or in the flesh, was often the one who left a lasting impression. Staff were expected to behave accordingly.

Hesitating by the row of lifts, none of which happened to be at ground level, he decided to use the stairs instead, partly because he felt stiff after the long drive, but also to give himself time to marshal his thoughts.

To say the air was awash with undercurrents was putting it mildly. There was a feeling of anarchy in the air. If the inscription on the back of the car was anything to go by, it was no wonder security had been tightened.

But there again, it struck him there was something odd about the uniformed man on duty at the entrance; something about him that didn’t ring true. Pommes Frites had certainly noticed it too.

Pausing on the third floor for a breather, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided it wouldn’t do any harm to go through his IN tray and bring himself up to date before going on up to the Director’s office. With that end in view he made his way along the corridor leading to the inspectors’ room.

Expecting it to be empty, he was surprised to find several of his colleagues hard at work.

‘If you’re thinking of making out your expense sheets,’ said Glandier, after the usual greetings had been exchanged, ‘forget it. Madame Grante’s on strike. P39’s are piling up.’

‘What? You’re joking!’

‘Well, she isn’t in, and if she isn’t on strike, I wouldn’t lay any bets on her coming back.’ Guilot, red-faced as ever from a continuing intake of carrot juice before meals, his preferred panacea for the occupational hazard of chronic indigestion, glanced up from a desk by the window. ‘Can’t say I blame her. Rumour has it the Director’s been talking of replacing her with a laptop.’

‘That’s all very well,’ said Glandier, ‘but these things add up. Three months on the road costs a bomb. My bank account is suffering withdrawal symptoms.’

‘If we don’t get our expenses,’ said Truffert, ‘the job won’t be worth a candle. If I’d realised what it was going to be like spending so much time eating on my own, I would have become a monk instead. The food may not always be as good, but at least you’ve got company.’

‘Try telling that to a Trappist,’ said Guilot. ‘You wouldn’t last long. At least we don’t suffer a vow of silence.’

‘I tell you something else,’ Loudier broke in gloomily. ‘If Madame Grante doesn’t come back soon, it’s only a short step to outsourcing the whole of the Accounts Department to India.’

Listening to the others talk, Monsieur Pamplemousse began to feel it was a good thing he hadn’t made it to Michel Bras after all.

‘“Outsourcing” is the latest key word,’ explained Truffert. ‘According to the grape vine there’s a distinct possibility of doing the same thing with the canteen.’

‘Not to India as well I hope,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘At least the curry would be hot,’ said Loudier. ‘Even when it’s cold, if you see what I mean.’

‘Pommes Frites won’t take kindly to it, that’s for sure,’ said Truffert. ‘He’ll be bringing his own if that happens. I can’t see him missing out on Tuesday’s cassoulet.’

‘Think of the alternative,’ persisted Loudier. ‘Can you imagine … the staff of France’s premiere food guide reduced to eating microwaved quiche Lorraine off plastic trays.’

‘It’s either that or portion control,’ said Glandier. ‘Take your pick.’

‘You know what that means,’ said Loudier. ‘Less all round. You don’t have portion control when people can have as much as they like.’

‘It’s like the old Woody Allen joke,’ said Glandier. ‘Not only is the food terrible, but it comes in such small portions.’

‘When did all this come about?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Over the last couple of weeks,’ said Guilot.

‘Who hasn’t been phoning in?’ asked Truffert pointedly.

Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit he had been unusually lax in that respect.

Mobile phones had their uses, but losing the use of his own had felt like a luxury and he had made the most of it, especially while meandering across the Auvergne, where communication wasn’t exactly on the cutting edge of technology at the best of times. It had been blissful.

‘Monsieur Leclercq is allowing all this to happen?’

‘That’s the odd thing,’ said Truffert. ‘Ever since he arrived back from the States he’s been a different person. Locking himself away with some high-flying time and motion consultant for hours on end; refusing to see anyone else.’

‘If you want my opinion,’ said Loudier, ‘he’s flipped. It’s bad enough trying to get into the place as it is. As for eyeball recognition … they’ll be installing passport control next. I shan’t be sorry to say adieu to it all.’

Loudier had been coming up for retirement for as long as Monsieur Pamplemousse could remember. He had stayed on through a series of short-term contracts, but he sounded in earnest this time.

‘You know what the next item on the agenda will be? VipChips! Have one implanted in your arm and you get keyless entry just by waving it at the lock.’

‘That’s not the only thing they can do,’ said Truffert. ‘In Africa they use them to keep track of wild animals. Mark my words … they’ll end up being able to keep tabs on your comings and goings via a satellite. Think of that!’

‘Talking of which,’ said Loudier, ‘has anyone heard from Madame Grante? I tried ringing the entry bell on her apartment in the rue des Renaudes, but there was no answer. To all intents and purposes she seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.’

‘That’s what comes of bringing in outsiders,’ said Glandier. ‘The founder must be turning in his grave. They didn’t have business efficiency experts in his day. Can you imagine?’

‘Péage by name,’ said Loudier gloomily. ‘Péage by nature.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked up his ears. He wondered if it had anything to do with the graffiti on the back of the car.

‘It isn’t the first time it’s happened,’ explained Loudier. ‘That honour goes to Monsieur Leclercq’s car. It’s at the dealers being attended to. Meantime his space is being used by our new business efficiency guru.’

‘What’s the betting the name was changed for the job?’ said Guilot. ‘It probably sounds better.’

‘Very Hollywood,’ said Glandier. ‘Like Fred Astaire started out as Frederick Austerlitz.’

Having been brought up in the Savoy region where there wasn’t much else to do during the winter months, Glandier was a dedicated cineaste and seldom let pass an opportunity to air his knowledge.

‘And Doris Day was born Doris von Kappelhoff,’ said Loudier.

‘That’s nothing.’ Glandier sounded slightly piqued. ‘Kirk Douglas began life as Iussur Danielovitch Demsky.’

‘That sounds a pretty good reason for changing it,’ said Guilot. ‘Think of the trouble he would have had signing autographs if he hadn’t.’

‘I’ll tell you something for nothing,’ broke in Loudier. ‘I looked Peáge up in the Paris phone book and there isn’t single one listed.’

‘Perhaps it started off as Plage,’ said Guilot. ‘It doesn’t have to be major, one letter is often enough. People are always doing it with their kids. Adding a letter on, even simply taking one away. Then they have to go through life spelling it out.’

‘There are laws in France about that kind of thing,’ said Loudier.

‘It happens,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

He was reminded of the time he’d had cause to investigate the Director’s family plot in the Père Lachaise cemetery.

Monsieur Leclercq’s family name was Leclerc. He must have decided at some point there were too many listed, so he’d added a ‘q’ to set himself apart. Knowing it was probably a sensitive point, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided not to mention the fact. It would create too much of a diversion.

His spirits sank still further as the conversation returned to the subject in hand: the future of Le Guide. Clearly, things were even worse than he had anticipated. He wondered if he should mention the summons he had received to return to headquarters, but decided to hold back for the time being, at least until he knew more about what was going on.

Leafing through the small pile of papers that had accumulated in his tray while he was away, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his pen …

‘Zut alors!’ He could have sworn he had it with him when they checked out of the hotel that morning.

‘Here … use this.’ Glandier tossed a Biro across the table.

Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the object. Compared to his Cross writing instrument it didn’t have the right feel at all, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Initialing the first few papers, he made his excuses and continued on his way up to the Director’s office on the 7th floor.

Hoping to catch Monsieur Leclercq’s secretary for long enough to get the low-down, he was disappointed to find Véronique emerging from the inner sanctum just as he entered the outer office.

She looked as though she had been crying, and her whispered ‘bonne chance’ as she squeezed past struck him as being not so much a casual pleasantry as a heartfelt expression of some inner anguish.

Expecting to find the Director seated in the usual chair behind his desk, he was surprised to see it was empty.

Glancing round the room, he noted a small workstation in one corner; a laptop, mobile phone and desk-lamp neatly arranged on top, a plush office chair pushed into the kneehole. He assumed it must belong to the new advisor. It all looked very efficient.

A pair of sliding glass doors in the vast picture window were open, and despite the chill air, the Director was outside on the balcony encircling the whole of the mansard floor.

He appeared to be gazing into the middle distance, and it wasn’t until Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites drew near that he became aware of their presence and turned to face them.

It was several weeks since Monsieur Pamplemousse had last seen him, but during that time he appeared to have lost weight, visibly ageing in the process. He was also wearing dark glasses. It must be catching. No wonder Véronique looked worried.

‘Ah, Pamplemousse!’ he exclaimed. ‘At long last. I have been looking out for you.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to say they would have arrived a quarter of an hour ago if they hadn’t been locked out.

‘We came as speedily as we could, monsieur.’

‘I suppose the traffic was bad?’ said Monsieur Leclercq.

‘Not when we left,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There wasn’t a car to be seen on the road at 5.30 this morning.’

‘And you drove straight here?’

‘We had a brief break stop at the Aire la Briganderie south of Orleans for Pommes Frites’ benefit …’

‘So that he could stretch his legs, I presume?’

‘It was more urgent than that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse loyally. ‘He was badly in need of a pipi. As it was he only just made the silver birches in time. I also wanted to see if they had any string …’

‘String!’ boomed the Director.

‘The passenger door had developed a rattle,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I was worried in case Pommes Frites fell out when we were cornering at speed.’

Monsieur Leclercq emitted a sigh. ‘Ah, Aristide, I do wish you would pension off that old 2CV of yours and use a company car instead. Although, in the circumstances …’ He broke off, dismissing whatever it was he had been about to say and instead glanced nervously at his watch.

Waving towards the visitor’s chair, he followed them back into the room.

Pressing a button to trigger off the automatic closing of the sliding doors, there was a faint, but luxurious hiss of escaping air from his black leather armchair as he seated himself.

Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on the desk in front of him, forming a steeple with his hands as he gathered his thoughts.

It may have been the result of wearing dark glasses, but it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the overall effect was more suggestive of the Leaning Tower of Pisa than the upright spire of Sainte-Chapelle.

Happening to glance to his left during the pause that followed, he saw the door to the drinks cupboard was open. A bottle of Monsieur Leclercq’s favourite cognac, Roullet Très Hors d’Age, was standing alongside an empty glass, and he couldn’t help wondering if it were a case of cause and effect.

Also, it might have been his imagination or simply a trick of the light, but the heavily framed portrait above the cupboard appeared to show the sitter looking even more forbidding than usual. On second thoughts ‘strained’ might be a better description.

Perhaps Glandier was right and even now LeGuide’s founder, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, was in the process of turning over in his grave.

In much the same way that the subject’s eyes in many portraits had a disconcerting habit of appearing to follow the viewer round a room, so the founder’s portrait never failed to reflect the prevailing mood; his steely eyes acting like the mercury in a barometer as they moved up and down according to the prevailing temperature.

Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but glance surreptitiously at his own watch. The hands showed 13.45.

Following whatever was on the menu for the main course at Michel Bras, poached fois gras with beetroot perhaps, or his renowned filet of Aubrac beef, they might have been rounding things off with a chocolate coolant: another ‘signature’ dish, inspired, so it was said, by a family skiing holiday. The warmth of a hollowed-out sponge, sometimes filled with fruit, at other times with chocolate or caramel, the whole capped with a scoop of frozen double cream, was intended to give the effect of a snow-covered mountain peak.

As he remembered it, the latter truly was the icing on the cake; much imitated, but never surpassed. It was no wonder the restaurant boasted three Stock Pots in Le Guide.

The thought reminded him of how hungry he felt, and he knew someone else who would be even more upset if he knew what was passing through his mind.

Except the ‘someone else’ in question, blissfully unaware of his master’s thought processes, was making full use of the lull in order to look for the water bowl that was invariably made ready for him whenever he visited the Director’s office. He peered round the desk and behind the waste bin, but he couldn’t see it anywhere. Such a thing had never happened before, bringing home to him, as nothing else could, the full seriousness of the situation.

Having drawn a blank, he gave vent to a deep sigh and settled down at his master’s feet to await developments.

The Director gave a start and came back down to earth from wherever he had been.

‘No doubt, Pamplemousse,’ he said, ‘you are wondering why I sent for you.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse sat back in his chair. He couldn’t have put it better if he tried.

‘As you may know,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I have recently returned from a visit to New York. While I was there, I paid a courtesy call on a company not dissimilar in size to our own.

‘One of the things I discovered was that they have what they call a “vibe” manager; a person whose sole function it is to report back to the management on matters concerning staff satisfaction.

‘In my position, Aristide, it is all too easy to lose touch with the rank and file.’

You’re telling me, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. Getting in touch with them from the beginning and staying that way might be the answer.

‘Tell me, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘you are a man of the world, and I place great value on your powers of observation. How would you rate the vibes within our own organisation?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hardly knew where to begin. ‘I, too, have been away,’ he said, slowly gathering his thoughts. ‘But in the short time I have been back I have noticed a number of things. There is a feeling of unhappiness in the air. Rumours are rife, and since they are spreading in all directions, much as tiny waves are set in motion when you throw a stone into the waters of a lake, they are hard to evaluate.

‘To put it bluntly, monsieur, I would say our own vibes indicate that matters have possibly reached an all-time low.’

‘Ah!’ Monsieur Leclercq shrank back in his seat. As he did so, there was another hiss of escaping air; almost as though he was being engulfed by the weight of some vast, overpowering tidal wave and had given up the fight. ‘I feared as much.’

‘Can I get you anything, monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse voiced his fears as he jumped to his feet. ‘A glass of cognac, perhaps?’

‘You are a good man, Pamplemousse.’ The Director reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. ‘Perhaps you would care to join me? I think you may be in need of one too when you hear what I have to tell you.’

An innocent enough remark: it seemed like a good idea to Monsieur Pamplemousse at the time.

Afterwards he was to realise that even a spider’s web has to start somewhere. 

CHAPTER TWO

‘Life, Aristide,’ began the Director, ‘is not all champagne and boules.’

‘That is true the world over,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, doing his best to offer words of comfort. ‘Parexemple, I imagine in Russia they probably use the phrase “vodka and onions”.’

‘Onions?’ repeated Monsieur Leclercq.

‘I was thinking of those domes they have on top of their buildings,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘In Grande Bretagne,’ he continued, warming to his theme, ‘I believe they say life is not all beer and skittles.’

‘From what one reads of their behaviour at football matches, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director testily, ‘one could be forgiven for thinking it was. The perfidious Albions are past masters at the art of twisting facts to suit themselves.’

‘I believe they feel the same way about us,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Vive la différence.’

Monsieur Leclercq removed the dark glasses and leant back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling as though involved in a life and death struggle with his innermost thoughts.

‘You were about to explain why we were summoned,’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse.

The Director looked as though he was beginning to wish he hadn’t.

‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘I should begin at the beginning.’

‘It is always a good place,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Recalling his long past visit to Père Lachaise, he couldn’t help adding: ‘Especially given your family motto – Ab ovo usque ad mala.’

The Director gave a start. ‘“From beginning to end”. Your memory does you credit, Aristide. Although I fear the latter part of it is none too apposite at this juncture. The end is far from in sight. Would that it were. However, it was good of you to come so quickly.’

‘I had been hoping to slip into Laguiole while I was in the area and visit Pierre Calmels’ workshop,’ said Monsieur Pamplemouse pointedly. ‘I had in mind buying my wife a new kitchen knife for Christmas. Such a present from the oldest coutellerie in the town would have had a special cachet.’

‘They do say the handle of traditional Laguiole knives is modelled on a young girl’s thigh,’ said Monsieur Leclercq dreamily.

Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to point out that had been at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and history didn’t record anything beyond the designer’s name, which was Eustache Dubois. Clearly, the Director had his mind on other matters.

‘It all began,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘when I was returning from a recent visit to New York, where I had been attending a seminar on business efficiency. It was in the nature of a damage repair mission. Since what is still referred to as 9/11, there has been a noticeable slackening in the exchange of views between our two great nations, almost as though we were at war with each other. Windows belonging to French restaurants in Dallas have been smeared with noxious substances of a personal nature. Congress registered its displeasure by renaming French fries in its cafeterias “freedom fries” – a classic case of having their cake and eating it if ever there was one.

‘Fortunately, it was only a temporary measure, but in the meantime sales of Le Guide have plummeted. I understand from a bookshop on Lexington Avenue they no longer have them on general display, but provide them under plain cover.’

‘There will always be those, mostly on the East and West coasts, who like to regard France as their second home and will continue to visit us, come what may,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But sadly, for the time being they are in the minority and tend to keep that fact to themselves, especially, so I am told, when they are travelling across Middle America.’

Monsieur Leclercq nodded his agreement. ‘Even then I might not have gone, but Véronique came up with a brainwave.

‘I must confess that after a strenuous week immersed in statistics and high-pressure salesmanship I was looking forward to the flight home and a chance to relax. You come across such a diverse range of people when you fly, especially when you travel Première Classe: a captain of industry one week, a leading scientist another, president of an oil company the next, politicians of note, film stars …

‘In my experience, the latter are often the worst; always showing their profile rather than looking out of the window, or making outrageous demands on the cabin staff just as the plane is about to land. Given half a chance some of them would want the whole cabin redecorated before they deign to come aboard.

‘However, it was the first time I had ever found myself seated next to a nun …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to picture it. ‘Perhaps the good lady had been upgraded out of regard for her advancing years?’ he suggested.

‘I think not,’ said the Director. ‘If that were the case the person in charge of the check-in desk needed to have their eyes tested. She was a pretty little thing.’

‘Aah!’ If Monsieur Leclercq wanted to focus his subordinate’s attention, he was going the right way about it. Tastes in these matters varied enormously, of course, and Monsieur Pamplemousse was the last person to set himself up as an arbiter in such matters, but one thing was certain; place the Director amongst a group of disparate members of the opposite sex and he would unerringly make a beeline for the one who had all the hallmarks of being a troublemaker.

It had happened more than once over the years. Those he had been wont to describe as a ‘pretty little thing’, taking pity on them because they were sitting in a corner all alone at a party, were invariably doing so because others around them recognised the signs and were all too aware of the fact that pretty little things were not necessarily to be trusted.

‘She let fall the fact,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, ‘that by a strange coincidence she had attended a similar course to mine. She intimated that she was acting as a financial advisor to the Vatican.’

‘The Vatican?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In Rome?’

‘There is only one Vatican as far as I am aware, Pamplemousse. I do not think it has branched out.’