Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines E-Book

Michael Bond

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

Seitenzahl: 294

Beschreibung

During his time as an inspector with the Paris Sûreté Monsieur Pamplemousse had been 'in at the death' on more than one occasion, but even he had to admit that the phrase took on an entirely new meaning when, seated in the front row of Cuisine de Chavignol, the eponymous host uttered a strangled cry and sank from view behind a kitchen worktop. Pommes Frites, sniffer dog extraordinaire, has his own views on the matter: Claude Chavignol was a bad egg if ever he'd seen one. Subsequent events prove him right, and as soon as he and his master find themselves caught up in a bizarre world of unrequited lust, murder and blackmail in high places.

Leseprobe

Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines

MICHAEL BOND

Contents

Title PageChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenAvailable from ALLISON & BUSBYAbout the AuthorCopyright

Chapter One

History wasn’t Monsieur Pamplemousse’s strong suit, but when Pommes Frites sank his teeth into Claudette Chavignol’s derrière which, as ill luck would have it happened to be sans culottes at the time, he couldn’t help being reminded of the occasion in 1796 when Napoleon Bonaparte suffered a similar fate. It was the future Emperor of France’s wedding night, and as he climbed into the marital bed, Josephine’s pet dog Fortuné, thinking his mistress was about to suffer a fate worse than death, leapt to her defence.

It was probably the first, but not necessarily the last time Napoleon uttered the immortal phrase, “Not tonight, Josephine!”

There the comparison ended. The two derrières bore little resemblance to each other. Had he been asked to voice an opinion on the subject, Monsieur Pamplemousse would have said that fortune had smiled on Pommes Frites, whereas Fortuné had drawn the short straw.

He had no means of knowing if his faithful hound’s spirited attack on Madame Chavignol had any after effects, although he doubted if many men had suffered as a consequence, but in Napoleon’s case the experience certainly put him off dogs for the rest of his life.

In some respects the Emperor ought to have considered himself lucky. Pommes Frites weighed in at some 50 or so kilos. Had he landed on top of him, Josephine might have been impressed, but the whole course of history could have been changed.

These things were largely a matter of chance. Or were they? Sometimes, past, present and future seemed to be inextricably intertwined.

In retrospect, Monsieur Pamplemousse often wondered if the circumstances leading up to his involvement in the gruesome affair of Monsieur Claude Chavignol’s death in front of several million viewers had been preordained.

However, such thoughts were far from his mind that Sunday morning when he was heading for the Porte de Bercy and decided to take a short cut rather than stick to the main road. It was something he had done many times before over the years.

Indeed, on sunny weekends in late autumn, when all Paris seemed to be heading towards the Bois de Vincennes for one last day out, it was often his preferred route.

That said, it was a classic example of how, simply by obeying an impulse and turning a corner, one’s whole life can be turned upside down. In retrospect, he sometimes tried to picture what might have happened had he carried straight on along the Rue Claude Decaen. Would the murderer have got away with it? He would never know for sure.

It was the first time he had ever met with any trouble turning off where he did. As it was, no sooner had he accelerated away from the junction in order to gain as much ground as possible, than he encountered a row of red warning arrows in the middle of the road. At the same time a gendarme emerged from behind a portable cabin and signalled him to pull in to the side.

It all happened so quickly several seconds passed before he applied the brakes.

Pommes Frites was taken by surprise too. Until that moment he had been happily enjoying the passing scene from the passenger seat. He looked most put out as he ended up with his chin on the dashboard.

Aware that he had come to rest several metres beyond the spot indicated by the gendarme, Monsieur Pamplemousse fully expected his emergency stop to be the subject of a verbal comment or two. Perhaps even a check to see when he’d last had his brake pads renewed.

Instead, the officer saluted politely as Monsieur Pamplemousse opened the window. There was no sign of recognition. He was probably too young to remember the face that had once graced the pages of a thousand journaux. Snapping to attention and saluting was fast becoming the exception rather than the rule.

‘Monsieur…’ clearly a man of few words, the gendarme directed his baton towards another figure emerging from the hut. Dressed in civilian clothes, he was hastily brushing some croissant crumbs from his trousers with one hand, while clasping a clip-board in the other. ‘A few questions.’

‘It will only take a moment or two.’ The newcomer produced a ballpoint pen from his top pocket and clicked it open in business-like fashion. ‘Now, you are travelling to where?’

‘Melun,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Near Fontainbleau.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

‘Neither.’

The man raised an eyebrow. ‘I have only two boxes, Monsieur. It is necessary to place a tick in one or the other.’

‘I am visiting my sister-in-law.’

‘Aaah!’ The point was taken. His pen hovered momentarily over the clipboard. Even the most carefully thought-out forms had their grey areas.

‘Monsieur is making a regular journey?’ he asked hopefully.

‘I make it as seldom as possible,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Tell your superiors that if they are thinking of building an underpass based on your survey, it would be a poor investment of the tax-payers money to do so on my behalf.’

‘There have been complaints from the local residents about the amount of through traffic.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse climbed out of his car and looked around. It struck him as being a particularly neglected part of the 12th arrondissement, but he resisted the temptation to say ‘What residents?’ The sooner the questions were answered, the sooner he would be on his way.

‘I hardly think my contribution is of any moment,’ he said. ‘I travel this way perhaps two or three times a year at the most. I visit Melun to fetch my wife after she has been staying with her sister.’

‘That is not how a statistician would view the matter, Monsieur,’ said the man stiffly. ‘Everything has to be taken into account. Only when all the relevant information has been collected and fed into the computer will the final result be known. But they are not infallible. A few years ago one threw up the suggestion that the only way to resolve the traffic problem on the Champs Èlysées would be to turn the Place de la Concorde into a pedestrian precinct. Imagine the uproar that would have caused.

‘Alors! You would be surprised. Only yesterday we had a man who uses this road four times a day, five days a week, and has done so for the past fourteen years. It is his preferred route. Now, he would dearly love an underpass between here and the other side of the périphérique. It would probably halve his journey time.

‘On the other hand, a few minutes ago a man passed through who was on his way to Iceland. It will be the trip of a lifetime. He won the holiday after entering a competition on the back of a packet of breakfast cereal. It is probablythe only time he will ever pass this way. Looking on the dark side, should his luck change and he happens to meet with an accident while he is over there – slipping on some black ice, perhaps, or turning the thermostat up too high when he retires for the night in his igloo – we may never see him again.

‘Then again, early this morning there was a lady who was on her way home from the 18th arrondissement. She works nights in the Pigalle area. She said she was dying to get back to her own bed in Ivry-sur-Seine and if I didn’t keep her talking too long I was welcome to enjoy a quickie behind my hut…’ He felt in his pocket. ‘She left me these to distribute. I tell you, Monsieur, in this job you meet all sorts.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily refused the proffered card. ‘Merci beaucoup! In any case, I am from the 18th myself.’

He felt a jolt as the gendarme kicked one of the back tyres. It was the time-honoured test. Fortunately he could detect no sound of escaping air. To have to change a wheel at this stage of the journey would be the last straw.

‘And did you find a suitable box to tick?’ he asked.

Ignoring the remark, the man glanced across at Pommes Frites and made an entry. ‘Passengers…un.’

There was another jolt as the gendarme applied his foot to the nearside front tyre. He looked disappointed when nothing happened. ‘You don’t come across many 2CV’s these days,’ he said. ‘In fact, I haven’t seen one in years.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help thinking there wouldn’t be any left at all if the gendarme had his way. He was glad he had invested in Michelin radials. They could withstand anything that was thrown at them.

‘Does the dog always travel with you?’ asked the interviewer.

‘Invariably,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly. ‘He performs a valuable service, especially on days like today. For déjeuner we will be having tripes à la mode de Caen and I shall need his help. My sister-in-law Agathe first served it to me many years ago when I was courting my wife. In order to gain favour I said it was the best I had ever eaten. She has been serving it to me ever since.’

The man looked up at him sympathetically. ‘It is not good?’

‘It is arguably the worst I have ever encountered,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse fervently. ‘Agathe is a lovely person. She has a heart of gold. But she has two faults. She “enjoys” bad health and, unlike my wife, she is a terrible cook.’

‘The two often go together,’ said the gendarme, joining in the conversation. ‘To be successful, tripes à la mode de Caen need a great deal of lengthy preparation. Ideally, the tripe should come from ruminants that have been fed in guimaux meadows, that is to say meadows bearing two crops of grass a year. The belly, the first and second stomach, along with a calf’s foot, which of course should be split, the bone removed, then blanched, all need to be thoroughly washed in cold water. This is especially the case with the second stomach, which is honeycombed and can be a source of trouble. Then a flameproof casserole dish – preferably the flat type peculiar to Normandy – should be lined with sliced apple and onion. Reinette apples are supposed to be the best. The most important ingredients after that are carrots, onions, leeks, a bouquet garni, and of course cider, preferably dry from the Vallée d’Auge, with a few tablespoons of Calvados mixed in.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse revised his earlier assessment of the gendarme. He was clearly a man to be reckoned with.

‘There are those,’ broke in the man from the census office, ‘who say it is not necessary to put apple in the casserole. They say the best solution is to round off the meal with an apple tart afterwards.’

‘I have an aunt who lives in Caen,’ said the gendarme stiffly. ‘I think she knows what she is talking about. She maintains the real secret is in the slow cooking.’

‘It should be given at least twelve hours,’ agreed the interviewer. ‘Not a minute less. I, too, have relatives in Normandy,’ he added, not to be outdone.

‘I doubt if my sister-in-law gives hers more than two hours,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘She turns the heat up high.’

‘Sacré bleu!’

The gendarme crossed himself. ‘If you ask me, short cuts are a symptom of a nation in decline,’ he said gloomily. ‘Everyone is in a hurry these days.’

As if to underline his words there came the sound of a horn. Glancing over his shoulder he glared at a Peugeot, the first in a growing line of vehicles, and signalled the driver to wait.

Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to point out that if the officer had been out directing traffic on the main road people wouldn’t need to take a short cut, but he restrained himself.

‘That is why we are conducting this survey,’ said the interviewer, coming to his rescue. ‘If a new bypass is built this road will no longer be a short cut.’

‘I haven’t looked in a supermarché,’ he continued, ‘but it wouldn’t surprise me to find that many of them stock deep-frozen tripes à la mode de Caen these days.’

The gendarme shook his head sadly. ‘Nothing is sacred. Full of additives no doubt. Along with instructions to give it three minutes in a microwave!

It is criminal. There are some things in life that can’t be hurried.’

‘My wife’s sister Agathe’s tripes à la mode de Caen is not only a criminal offence,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘it is also very grey.’

‘Ah,’ said the gendarme. ‘Now that is possibly because she has not sealed the lid of the tripière properly. It needs to be done very thoroughly with pastry dough in order to preserve the whiteness of the intestines.’

‘With respect, Monsieur, that need not necessarily be the cause.’ The driver of the Peugeot joined in the conversation. ‘Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing. The use of too much cider in the liquid is often a cause of blackening.

‘The making of tripes à la mode de Caen is a construction job. The tripe itself needs to be cut into 5cm squares. The arrangement of the various layers is important. It is a case of building up from a generous bottom layer of onion to form the base, and then come the diced carrots followed by the leeks. After the meat has been arranged it should be covered with a layer of beef kidney lard before the cider is added.’

‘I doubt if my sister-in-law adds any cider,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily. ‘She may show it the label on an old bottle, but that’s as far as she would ever go. Again, unlike my wife, she is teetotal.’

It was a conversation stopper.

‘No Calvados?’ asked the newcomer.

‘Pas de cidre?’ exclaimed the interviewer.

‘Not even any jus de parapluie?’ The gendarme used the slang term for cheap wine.

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head at all three possibilities.

‘It is no wonder you don’t go to see her very often,’ said the interviewer. He clicked his pen shut. ‘She would be better off buying it ready cooked from a delicatessen.’

There was a moment’s silence as the others turned to look at each other in despair.

Catching Pommes Frites’ eye, Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he should seize the moment to make a dash for it. He didn’t feel it incumbent upon himself to apologise for his sister-in-law’s shortcomings. He glanced pointedly at his watch. He could hear the steady hum of traffic in the distance and he was anxious to be on his way. At the rate they were going he must have lost several hundred places. It was worse than being sent back to DÉPART in a game of Monopoly.

But he had left it too late. The gesture was like water off a duck’s back. The others were off again.

‘These things,’ said the Peugeot man, ‘traditional recipes… must not be allowed to die out. Regional cuisine is what makes our country the way it is.’

‘Such specialities are one of the joys of travelling in France,’ agreed the gendarme. ‘It is one of our great strengths. Part of our national heritage.’

‘It is also the backbone of the tourist trade,’ broke in the man from the census.

‘I’m not so sure.’ The Peugeot driver looked sceptical. ‘The concept of regional specialities is foreign to Americans. Apart from that, they don’t understand the joy of driving. To them a car is merely a means of getting from point A to point B as quickly as possible.’

‘Not just Americans,’ said another man who had just arrived on the scene.

‘Take peas. There are many in France today who have never known the joy of running their thumb down a half open pod and watching the contents fall out.’

‘There is a particular sound as they land in the vessel,’ agreed a fifth. ‘It is like that of rain falling on a tin roof.’

‘I prefer broad beans,’ said the Peugeot man. ‘I love the furry feel on the inside of the pod – the little pockets for each bean.’

‘My vote would go to the moment when you unearth the first of the new season’s potatoes,’ said the interviewer. ‘There is nothing like it. It is how I always imagine prospectors must feel when they are panning for gold.’

‘Most of all,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘there is the joy of eating them. With freshly picked peas and beans there is the slight crunchiness of the outside, followed by the explosion of tastes from within.’

‘There are those,’ said the gendarme, ‘who will never experience such things. I dare say they think they grow on trees. It is as I said in the beginning, everyone is in too much of a hurry.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt it was time to take a hand. ‘If a job is worth doing,’ he said, ‘it is worth doing well.

‘I live near the vineyard of Clos Montmartre. It has over 2000 vines; mostly Gamy and Pinot Noir. It is overseen by a Monsieur Gourdin. Every year at the time of the harvest he supervises the taking of the grapes to the mairie for fermentation in the basement.’

‘That is true,’ said the gendarme. ‘I am told that at such times they can smell it in the Prefecture de Police next door. It is a good smell and it reminds them to get ready for the big street party on the first Saturday in October – the Fête des Vendages.’

‘Unfortunately,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘because the vines are planted on a North facing slope, even in a good summer it is hard to produce top quality wine. It used to be said that the 700 or so bottles they manage to produce acted as a diuretic, every quart becoming four more, making those who drank it leap around like goats. But it is all in a good cause. The money from the sale goes to charity. For many years it was the only vineyard left in Paris to keep the flag flying. Since his arrival, Monsieur Goudin has inspired others. Small vineyards are starting to spring up all over the place.’

‘That is also true,’ agreed the gendarme. ‘Once upon a time the Paris region had over 20,000 hectares of vineyards, but they were all decimated by the outbreak of phylloxera in the late nineteenth century. Now, they are even growing grapes at a fire station in the 9th.’

‘In my small way,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I help to keep the flag flying. On the balcony of my apartment I have six window boxes. I use them to grow herbs in.’

The gendarme looked at him with renewed respect. ‘You are to be congratulated, Monsieur. There is hope for France yet.’

‘You are from the Auvergne?’ suggested the Peugeot owner.

Monsieur Pamplemousse confessed that he was.

‘I thought as much. With respect, I detect a streak of stubbornness. Also the interest in food.’

‘Auvergnats play an integral part in the history of Paris brasseries,’ agreed the latest arrival. He turned to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Have we not met somewhere before?’

‘I think not,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘I never forget a face,’ said the man. He stared at the figure hunched in the passenger seat. ‘The dog, too. He looks very familiar.’

Pommes Frites gazed back at him unblinkingly.

‘He is much the same way,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse pointedly. ‘He never forgets a face either, and I see no signs of recognition.’

‘Once you’ve seen one Afghan, you’ve seen the lot,’ said the Peugeot owner. Unclipping his pen the interviewer made another entry on his form.

‘Afghan?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. He avoided catching Pommes Frites’ eye again for fear of what he might see. There were certain key words that met with instant disapproval. Afghan was probably one of them.

‘He is a Bloodhound.’

The man gave a shrug. ‘Ah, well. Be that as it may. It is just that you sound as though you have a professional interest in food, Monsieur, and I happen to be in the business.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a non-committal reply. If he said he worked for Le Guide, the oldest and most respected gastronomic bible in all France, the floodgates would open. Given the combined interest in food of his present company, he would never get away.

‘I merely mention it because I happen to have a ticket for the Claude Chavignol show tomorrow evening,’ said the man. ‘His new series has just started. Monsieur will know him, of course. Now, there is a cook for you.’

‘I know of him,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse guardedly. ‘In fact, I often pass the studios where the programme is made. They are not far from where I live…’

‘Then it must be meant.’ The man felt inside his jacket and withdrew a strip of pasteboard.

‘Here. It is a shame to waste it. My brother gave it to me. He knows someone who works there. I’m sorry it is for one person only but I shall be away, so I am unable to make use of it.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. He had no wish to hurt the other’s feelings, but the programme went out on Monday evenings and if he watched television at all he opted for CANAL +, where there was often a good film on. Also, according to all the rumours he’d heard, Claude Chavignol, noted gastronome and television personality, didn’t actually know one end of a carrot from the other. One of his colleagues, Bernard, who also knew someone who worked on the show – a cousin twice removed who was a cameraman – maintained that a minion actually made an incision along the length of any root vegetables so that Monsieur Chavignol would know exactly where he should place his implement.

‘Have you noticed that part is never shown in close-up?’ Bernard had been only too anxious to air his inside knowledge. ‘They always cut away to a shot of the audience. Even then they have a nurse standing by in case the knife slips.’

‘Now you mention it,’ the man from the census broke into his thoughts. ‘I have a feeling I’ve seen you somewhere before too… I have been racking my brains…’

Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed himself ‘Treize, douze, onze, dix, neuf, huit, sept, six, cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un…’ he said, anxious to change the subject.

‘Are you all right, Monsieur?’ asked the official.

Removing his hat, Monsieur Pamplemousse bowed in the direction of the man’s hut before replying. ‘I thought I saw a magpie perched on the roof. Where I come from to see one magpie is considered bad luck. It is worse than crossed knives. Reciting the numbers one to thirteen quickly in reverse order is a kind of talisman. My mother, God rest her soul, always swore by it. And she lived to a ripe old age.’

‘I can’t see it,’ said the man.

‘There you are!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Already it has taken fright.’

‘They are solitary birds,’ the gendarme broke in. ‘All the same, I agree it is not a good sign. The magpie is said to be a hybrid of the raven and the dove, which means that when Noah released those two birds from the ark, the magpie itself was never baptized in the waters of the flood.’

‘It is not a happy bird,’ agreed the Peugeot driver. ‘If a single magpie croaks near a house it is said that one of the occupants will die.’ He gave a chuckle as he looked at the interviewer. ‘I wouldn’t fancy having your job.’

Hearing a veritable symphony of protesting horns from further down the road, the gendarme terminated the conversation.

He saluted. ‘Pardon, Messieurs…’

From the expression on his face as he set off towards the line of cars, he was about to throw the book at their owners. The prospects for getting away in a hurry didn’t look good. Excessive exhaust fumes would be noted. The depth of tyre treads measured. Papers checked.

‘It is very kind of you. It so happens I am starting a week’s holiday…’

Accepting the ticket as a means of making good his own escape, Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped it into an inside pocket next to his wallet and tendered his goodbyes. After handshakes all round and with sympathetic cries of ‘bonne chance’ ringing in his ears, he resumed his journey.

Glancing in the rear view mirror before pulling out he derived a certain amount of satisfaction when he saw the official, having set off towards his hut, pause to gaze up at the sky as though having second thoughts.

Looking back over his shoulder, Pommes Frites saw what was happening too and clearly felt the same way.

The possibility that in the days to come there would be many worse matters to occupy their respective minds didn’t occur to either of them. Pommes Frites fell into a state of gloom at the prospect of having cold left-over tripe for his lunch. As for Monsieur Pamplemousse, his mind was on other things.

Once round the first corner, he put his foot down on the accelerator pedal.

So much for taking a short cut in order to save time. He still had fifty or so kilometres to go. On a good day it could take the best part of an hour. On a bad Sunday there was no telling…

That was another thing about Agathe – she didn’t take kindly to people being late. Especially after she had been slaving away over a hot stove. And her with her bad back!

Chapter Two

Monsieur Pamplemousse might have forgotten all about the ticket if Doucette hadn’t come across an item in LeParisien next morning at breakfast.

She was about to go through the list of planned manifestations for the day – a procession of striking street cleaners in Passy, another involving veterinary surgeons in the Place de la Bastille – when her eye fastened on a piece of traffic news.

‘I see now why you were so late yesterday, Aristide,’ she said. ‘Fancy! A five kilometre tail-back at Porte de Bercy! I must phone Agathe and tell her it wasn’t entirely your fault.’

‘I doubt if she will believe you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, reaching for a second croissant. He resisted the temptation to add that her sister was also partly responsible. As with her tripes à la mode de Caen, it wouldn’t go down well. He produced the ticket instead, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

‘Of course you must go!’ said Doucette. ‘They’re always showing shots of the audience and I haven’t seen you on television for ages. Not since your days with the Sûreté when you were working on a difficult case. You may even get invited to take part.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked dubious. ‘Not if I can help it,’ he said.

‘Think of Pommes Frites,’ replied Doucette. ‘He has never seen you on the screen.’

‘I doubt if he ever will,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse obstinately. ‘Dogs don’t have the benefit of persistency of vision. I shall be just a blur like everything else…’

‘Don’t you be so sure,’ said Doucette darkly. ‘Pommes Frites sees what he wants to see.’

She was right, of course. Who was to say for certain what dogs could or could not see? They had their own methods. Anyway, there were times when it was best not to argue.

Which was why that same evening found him in the Centre de Télévision et Ciné de la Butte watching a studio clock tick away the final seconds before Cuisine de Chavignol resumed following a break for a filmed item.

Arriving at the last possible moment, hoping for a seat at the back of the audience so that he could make a quick getaway, his plan had misfired. It was a case of the last shall be first and he was ushered into the front row.

Worse still, much worse, although he had no doubt Doucette would be pleased for Pommes Frites’ sake, it meant he could be in line to join the select few Claude Chavignol chose to join him at table for the finale: Dîner avec Chavignol.

The possibility that long before the evening was over he would have a much more pressing reason for being on stage anyway didn’t enter his mind.

Had he been recognised when he took his seat? He felt sure the answer was “yes”. He’d caught a glimpse of the great man in the wings, weighing up the pros and cons of his potential guests. Their eyes had met momentarily. Lips pursed, the host held Monsieur Pamplemousse’s gaze for what felt like an unnecessarily long time, as though filing his presence away in the back of his mind for some reason.

Watching the programme at home, it had always seemed to Monsieur Pamplemousse that Claude Chavignol derived an inordinate amount of pleasure in embarrassing the participants and he had no wish to become one of his victims.

Doucette, who didn’t trust men with fleshy lips, was very down to earth on the subject, maintaining he should never have shaved off his moustache.

Since she didn’t like men with beards either, believing it meant they had something to hide, Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to say she couldn’t have it both ways. It was like giving a man two ties for Christmas and as soon he tried one on, asking what was wrong with the other.

As usual, she had the last word. What was it she had said?

“If you stuck a pin in that man’s ego he would flutter around the room like a pricked balloon before finally disappearing up his own derrière.”

Monsieur Pamplemousse had pretended to be mildly shocked at the time. It was unlike her to be quite so censorious, or so earthy.

Although it was his first visit to the studios, he had often caught glimpses of them from the outside when he and Pommes Frites were out for a walk. Situated not far from where they lived, but further down the hill towards the Boulevard de Clichy, it was one of those half-hidden enclaves peculiar to Montmartre. Often bigger than they looked, sometimes put to good use and thriving with activity, as was the present case, but more often than not monuments to a bygone age following years of neglect.

Occasionally he stopped to peer between the wrought iron bars of some electrically operated gates that opened on to a courtyard surrounded on all four sides by ancient buildings. Windows, which at one time had been like eyeless holes in the walls, now sported gleaming white shutters, although he strongly suspected many of the openings behind them were bricked up, concealing the fact that the inside had been gutted. Beneath each shutter there was a window box full of carefully tended flowers.

The courtyard was usually full of parked cars, often including an old Facel Vega Excellence in immaculate condition. In its time it had been France’s answer to Britain’s Rolls Royce and Germany’s Mercedes-Benz, and he took it to belong to Monsieur Chavignol himself, since it was very much a Show Biz car, beloved of American film stars: Ava Gardner, Tony Curtis and Danny Kaye to name but a few, and was always in a special marked area by the main entrance to the studios.

More than once he had seen people queuing for audience shows, never dreaming that one day he would be joining them.

Rumour had it that Chavignol had purchased the site for a song. If that were true, his investment had certainly paid off. It was a case of money making money. Having converted the buildings into a complex of studios at a time when everyone seemed to be going independent, he had never looked back; least of all – again, so it was said – at those whose toes he had trodden on during his progress up the ladder of fame.

His own weekly show, which took place in a simulated theatre with a fake proscenium arch and raked seating for an audience of around 150, followed a set pattern. Fifty minutes of something borrowed, something blue, something old and something new: chat show, game show, the occasional musical item, a touch of magic here and there, plus various cookery items, all rolled into one.

Cynics who took the view that you can never underestimate the public’s taste must have had their fears confirmed, for in many respects it was a combination of all that was worst in television. That said, it was compulsive viewing and regularly topped the charts.

Host, anchorman, magician, raconteur, wit; once Claude Chavignol got going, bons mots culled by his team of researchers flowed in a never-ending stream via the autocue.

“In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, the other is getting it.”

“Nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.”

Oscar Wilde might well have consulted his copyright lawyer had he been alive to hear them.

Marcel Aymé (1902–1967) would have joined in. Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised “life always comes to a bad end” as being a quotation from one of his more bizarre works for the simple reason that a bronze statue based on his book The Man Who Could Pass Through Walls protruded from a wall outside their apartment block. Pommes Frites had left his mark on it many a time.

Oozing insincerity from every pore, master of all he surveyed, the term “television personality” fitted the programme’s host much like his immaculately tailored, dark blue, buttoned up to the neck, Nehru suit.

Seeing him in the flesh for the first time, Monsieur Pamplemousse realised that in one respect at least the description “manufactured” did him an injustice, for his hands were long and slender and beautifully manicured. They were a magician’s hands.

All that apart, he certainly wouldn’t have wanted to work for him. Those under him probably led a dog’s life. It showed in his choice of warm-up artiste: a little-known comedian who was good, but not so good that he would take the shine off the host. After the first few jokes he had set about drilling the audience in the part they had to play. First the length and volume of their applause, then their enthusiastic echoing of “YUMS” – a word used by the host whenever he tasted one of his own dishes.

So far, the programme had been par for the course.

First, the reminiscing about his childhood: helping in the kitchen. ‘There is nothing like the taste of raw cake mix – scraping out the mixing bowl – licking the spoon clean…’ A chorus of “YUMS” rang round the studio.

Feigning being worn out by it all, Monsieur Chavignol filled a glass jug with water from a tap, took a Paris goblet and poured out a glass of red wine.