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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Monsieur Pamplemousse Series
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013
Monsieur Pamplemousse finds himself in deep water when an unfortunate collision with a Mother Superior is caught on camera by the French tabloids. To avoid media attention, he is sent to report on chef André Dulac, currently in line for Le Guide's top award of the Golden Stock Pot Lid, and opens a can of worms which threatens the very sanctity of France's premier gastronomic bible. Being on the verge of haute cuisine takes on a whole new meaning, and his attempt to get at the truth by harnessing a state-of-the-art TV camera to his ever-faithful hound Pommes Frites, ensures that outside broadcasting will never be quite the same again.
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Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation
MICHAEL BOND
Contents
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation
CHAPTER ONE
Monsieur Henri Leclercq, Director of Le Guide, the oldest and most respected culinary bible in the whole of France, turned away from the window of his seventh-floor office as Monsieur Pamplemousse entered the room. Swivelling his chair in what was clearly a well-rehearsed movement, he came to rest in a position which ensured that his face was in deep shadow.
As he leant back and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his dark blue pinstripe André Bardot tailored suit, a deep sigh filled the room. It was hard to tell if it was a hiss of escaping air emanating from within the luxurious folds of the black leather upholstery or whether it came from somewhere deep inside Monsieur Leclercq himself. It might even have been a mixture of the two, for it was a sound which exuded both opulence and long suffering.
He nodded towards a chair of rather less generous dimensions positioned in front of his desk. ‘Please be seated, Pamplemousse.’
Another nod embraced a waiting figure at Monsieur Pamplemousse’s side. ‘Pommes Frites, too.’
Pommes Frites beat his master to it by a short head. After noisily slaking his thirst from a bowl of water someone, presumably Véronique, the Director’s secretary, had put out for his benefit, he leapt up, settled himself down in a patch of sun, and closed his eyes. He knew the signs; they pointed to a long session of questions and answers. Monsieur Leclercq would be asking the questions, and with luck his master would be providing the answers. It was a good opportunity to catch up on lost sleep.
‘Excusez-moi, Monsieur. The last few days have been very tiring for him.’ Apologising for his companion’s unseemly behaviour, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave Pommes Frites a nudge and pointed to the floor. ‘Asseyez-vous.’
Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, he stole a quick glance around the room, taking in as he did so other signs which, in his haste, Pommes Frites had failed to spot. The door to the drinks cabinet was firmly shut. Clearly, hospitality was not the order of the day, although he did note in passing an empty brandy glass on the Director’s desk; a desk which although normally clear, was positively littered with the day’s journaux. Not to put too fine a point on matters, it looked for all the world like a newsagent’s kiosk at delivery time. He also noted that the right-hand lapel of Monsieur Leclercq’s jacket bore the insignia of the Légion d’honneur, yet another pointer to the seriousness of the occasion.
Having changed places with his friend and mentor, Monsieur Pamplemousse shifted uneasily as he tried to make himself comfortable. In his haste, Pommes Frites had been less than meticulous in conserving his intake of water. But unlike the Director’s executive chair, his own seat remained stationary. It had been set at a carefully calculated angle which ensured that the rays of the morning sun, deflected by the golden dome of the Hôtel des Invalides some four hundred metres away, those same rays that had so attracted Pommes Frites, landed fairly and squarely across his face. The signs were not auspicious.
The message summoning him to Headquarters had arrived at his home by special delivery late the previous evening. He had taken Doucette to the cinema, and the note had been in his mail box to greet him on their return. Short and to the point, it bade him report to the Director’s office at nine o’clock sharp the following morning.
Interrupting Monsieur Pamplemousse’s thoughts, the Director riffled through the pile of papers in front of him.
‘I take it, Pamplemousse, you have seen the news.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘No, Monsieur. I left early so that I could be here on time as you requested. The traffic in Montmartre is normally bad at this time of day …’ He broke off, shielding his eyes as the Director held a copy of Figaro aloft. For a split second he could have sworn he saw a photograph of himself on the front page. A strangely distorted reproduction to be true, but the likeness was there nevertheless, as indeed was the location.
His heart sank as he was at last able to see the drift of the Director’s line of questioning.
In recent weeks Monsieur Leclercq had been on one of his leadership kicks. It often happened when he returned from a business trip to the United States, where they were very keen on such things. His latest visit was no exception and Le Guide had since suffered accordingly. Memos couched in unfamiliar jargon appeared on the canteen notice board. Addressed TO ALL STAFF, they contained subheadings calculated to spread alarm and despondency around the building; phrases like ‘Survival Courses’, ‘Maximising One’s Potential’, and the need to be ‘Fully Stretched’ were bandied about willy-nilly.
One by one staff had been plucked from their hiding places and dispatched to various parts of France, there to take part in assault courses the like of which they had only previously read about in books on the Gulf War. Rumour had it that there was even a photograph in circulation which showed Madame Grante, Head of the Accounts Department, wading through a salt marsh in the Camargue dressed in combat outfit and clutching a Kalashnikov assault rifle above her head, but since no one could lay claim to having actually seen a copy, it could have been one of Bernard’s flights of fancy. Bernard was a dab hand at spreading rumours.
The sickness rate had risen to unprecedented heights. Applications for bisques, leave granted at a moment’s notice without any reason having to be given (three days per annum max.), proliferated. And when those were used up, hitherto unmentioned relatives materialised out of the blue, only to drop dead within a matter of days.
Monsieur Pamplemousse, no stranger to the tricks of the trade, had managed to avoid his stint by one devious means or another, but in the end life finally caught up with him and from one of the remaining short straws he had drawn a week’s survival course at a naval base in Boulogne.
There he had run foul of a fitness freak of the very worst kind, an ex-member of an elite undercover brigade who he was sure must retire to bed at night wearing a wetsuit and goggles rather than pyjamas. One way and another it had been a disastrous few days. Parts of him hadn’t felt so stretched in years, and it had culminated in his being sent home early in disgrace.
Monsieur Leclercq rapped the offending item with the knuckles of his other hand before tossing it to one side.
‘Explanations, Pamplemousse.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to play for time. ‘Shall I begin at the beginning, Monsieur?’
‘If you must,’ said the Director wearily.
‘I simply suggest that in deference to your family motto,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Abovo usque ad mala. From the beginning to the end.’
‘I am well acquainted with the meaning of our family motto, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director huffily. ‘Please get on with it. I do not have all day.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath.
‘It was very cold, Monsieur. Even colder than is usual for the time of year.’
‘Survival courses, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director sternly, ‘take no account of climatic conditions. That is the whole point of them. The same qualities of leadership required for leading troops into battle in the Sahara desert during the blazing heat of summer are equally necessary on a February day in Boulogne.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse decided he wasn’t going down without a fight. ‘With respect, Monsieur, I venture to suggest that leadership under fire is hardly one of the major qualities needed by an Inspector for Le Guide. A good sense of direction, yes. A knowledge of map-reading, the ability to work alone for long hours at a time, an analytical mind, taste buds honed to perfection, a good digestive system; all these things are necessary. But entries in Le Guide for both the Sahara desert and Boulogne are remarkably thin on the ground at any time of the year.’
The Director chose to ignore the interruption. Searching among the journaux he picked up a manila folder and opened it at a previously marked page.
‘Your report makes unhappy reading, Pamplemousse. You not only failed to achieve the fifty per cent pass rate in any of the subjects covered by the course, in some areas you were actually given a minus mark, and Pommes Frites fared no better.
‘Par exemple, it says here when your course instructor commanded you to jump into the harbour, instead of obeying orders you stood back and said “Après vous.”’
‘That is true, Monsieur.’
‘The poor man took you at your word and after swimming about fifty metres he looked over his shoulder and you were still standing on the quay. It is no wonder he was in a bad mood.’
‘There was one basic problem, Monsieur.’
‘Which was?’
‘I cannot swim.’
‘Why did you not tell him?’
‘Swimming is his chosen profession, Monsieur. It is certainly not mine. Besides, he did not ask me.’
The Director clucked impatiently. ‘That is a very negative attitude, Pamplemousse. Hardly what one might have expected from an ex-member of the Paris Sûreté, and certainly not up to the standards set by our illustrious founder.’ Here Monsieur Leclercq paused to allow Monsieur Pamplemousse time in which to glance over his shoulder at a large oil painting hanging on the wall to his left.
As always, the subject’s steely gaze provided no crumbs of comfort. Monsieur Pamplemousse sometimes wondered what pleasure, if any, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval had got out of life. As with Michelin, Le Guide had started off as a vade mecum for travellers, although unlike the former, and being first in the field by a small margin, it had been aimed at the cycling fraternity rather than those who were fortunate enough to own a motor car. Bernard always maintained Monsieur Duval looked as though he suffered from chronic indigestion, but perhaps he had simply been permanently saddle sore.
‘At the time, Monsieur, it seemed a very positive attitude. Boulogne harbour is not the most salubrious place at the best of times. People do not go there to “take” the water, but rather to throw things into it. It struck me that while awaiting the outgoing tide the harbour had managed to accumulate rather more than its fair share of the world’s detritus, much of which one would hesitate to give a name to in polite society, especially since les Anglaises took to descending en masse in order to do their shopping in the local supermarchés.
‘He then expected me to swim out to a vessel at anchor some twenty metres away, dive under it, and with luck emerge on the other side. In no way was I going to risk life and limb on what seemed to me to be an exceedingly hazardous, not to say pointless exercise. There were a number of perfectly good rowing boats to hand.’
‘And what was Pommes Frites’ excuse?’ Despite his impatience at the direction the conversation was taking, Monsieur Leclercq’s interest was obviously roused and he allowed himself a momentary digression. ‘I see here he also refused to obey a twice-uttered command.’
‘That happened when the Instructor, a man of undoubted physical prowess but limited imagination, removed from Pommes Frites’ mouth what he mistakenly assumed to be a lump of wood. He then threw it into the water so that it could be fetched. Doubtless, he was hoping to encourage both of us to dive in after it, but in the event we were not tempted. The object sank like a stone. I suspect that when Pommes Frites looked over the side of the jetty he reached much the same conclusion about the state of the water as I did.’
‘And?’
‘That was when he bit the Instructor, Monsieur. The “stick” happened to be a frozen boudin noir. He was warming it up in his mouth and not unnaturally took umbrage at seeing it thrown into the ocean instead of being served up in a bowl with some pommes purée, as he doubtless expected it would be.’
‘Hmm.’ The Director’s eyes glazed over. ‘This may sound a silly question, Pamplemousse, but may I ask what Pommes Frites was doing standing on a quayside in Boulogne in midwinter with a frozen boudin noir in his mouth?’
‘I imagine he was looking for somewhere to bury it for safe keeping, Monsieur. After all, it was his birthday … but surrounded as he was by acres of concrete and cobblestones, suitable hiding places were few and far between.’
‘Pommes Frites’ birthday?’ repeated the Director. ‘Why was I not informed? It should be on file. Had I known I would have sent him a card.’ Reaching out, he pressed a key and dictated a short note to his secretary.
Monsieur Pamplemousse acknowledged the compliment on behalf of his friend. ‘I took the boudin with me to mark the occasion, Monsieur. It came from Coesnon in the rue Dauphine. They make them fresh every Tuesday and Thursday.’
‘Aah!’ In spite of himself, the Director gave a deep sigh. This time there was no mistaking the source. ‘Coesnon. I know it well. Tell me, does Pommes Frites favour the chestnut flavoured variety or the ones with raisins?’
‘He has Catholic tastes, Monsieur. As a special treat I bought him a selection. However, if pressed I would say he is particularly partial to the boudin de campagne. I noticed that after a cursory sniff he disposed of that one first and it is not in his nature to save the best until last; rather the reverse. He ate most of the others for breakfast; all except for one which he was saving for later and I have no idea which flavour that was. Now, we shall none of us ever know. I think if it ever surfaces it will be given a wide berth.’
‘Saving his last boudin until later!’ The Director gazed in awe at the recumbent figure lying next to Monsieur Pamplemousse, then he drew a line through an entry on a form in front of him. ‘Would that we all had such strength of character, Pamplemousse,’ he added meaningly. ‘Such iron will to resist temptation when the occasion demands.
‘Which brings me somewhat appositely,’ he continued, ‘to the matter in hand; the reason why I called you in at this hour of the day.’ Once again the Director pointed to the pile of newspapers. ‘Pamplemousse, the worst has happened. In the early hours of this morning I received a telephone call from an old friend, the head of one of our most respected press agencies, issuing a friendly warning.’
A small cloud momentarily blotted out the sun and Monsieur Pamplemousse caught another brief glimpse of his own likeness. ‘The results of my exam are in the journal, Monsieur?’
The Director clucked impatiently. ‘No, Pamplemousse, they are not, and let us pray they never will be. If your name is ever linked to that of Le Guide the ignominy will be hard to live down. No, worse than that, I fear. Far worse. I am referring to events which took place later that same day.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the picture. The black areas, which from a distance he had taken to be shadows, took on an ecclesiastical nature when seen at close quarters. Legs protruded at unseemly angles from a black gown. A face, looking straight up at the camera lens, was unmistakably his. Thank goodness he had unburdened himself to Doucette when he arrived home. It would have given her a terrible shock had she stumbled on it by accident.
‘Pamplemousse! Are you listening?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse came to with a start as he realised he was being addressed.
‘I repeat,’ barked the Director, ‘can you not be away from home for more than a day or two at a time without feeling the need to satisfy your carnal desires?’
‘I assure you, Monsieur, it was not like that at all. Nothing could have been further from my mind. Pommes Frites and I had been out for a walk and we were taking a shortcut. As you may know, “lights out” in our billets was at twenty-two hundred hours and it seemed a good opportunity to practise our wall climbing. It is a very useful attribute when one is visiting strange restaurants, Monsieur. The element of surprise when arriving late at night can sometimes prove invaluable when preparing reports.’
‘Spare me your sarcasm, Aristide,’ said the Director. ‘The pity is that you chose the wall of a convent on which to practise.’
‘All walls look alike in the dark, Monsieur.’
‘An unhappy choice of phrase in the circumstances,’ said the Director. ‘The Mother Superior was convinced you were trying to rape her on the spot.’
‘She happened to be doing her nightly patrol,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Unfortunately I landed on top of her as she was going past.’
‘That,’ said the Director sternly as he retrieved his copy of Figaro, ‘is patently obvious from this photograph. It is the stuff of which headlines are made. And Pommes Frites? What is he doing, glowering lasciviously over the unfortunate victim when he should have been going to her rescue?’
‘That is not a glower, Monsieur. That is his concerned expression.’
‘The article maintains that he was attacking her.’
‘It only goes to show people shouldn’t believe all they read in the journaux,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘But people do, Aristide. That is the trouble … people do. It is my belief that the media has it within its power to bring about the destruction of mankind if it ever feels so disposed.’
‘He was merely trying to lick her better, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse lamely. ‘Chiens’ saliva is believed to be rich in healing qualities. He was as concerned as I was at the turn of events.’
‘Not a story that would stand up in court, Pamplemousse, I fear,’ said the Director soberly. ‘Parallels might be drawn between yourself and a poster advertising Bela Lugosi playing the part of Dracula. The fact that you made good your escape before the police arrived will undoubtedly go against you.’
‘Escape?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked suitably offended. ‘By then it was five minutes to lights out, Monsieur. Discipline is very strict at the naval base and I had no wish to be locked out. Having tendered our sincere apologies to the good lady and made sure she was none the worse for the experience … no broken bones … no torn ligaments … we shook hands. She even thanked me for my courteous behaviour and rewarded Pommes Frites with a pat on the head.’
‘That is not what she is saying now.’
‘With respect, Monsieur, people often see things differently in the cold light of day. That is why in France when two cars are involved in a collision an accident report must be filled in by both parties on the spot. In that way neither side can change their story at a later date.’
‘Perhaps you should have filled in a collision report yourself,’ said the Director dryly.
‘The facts will speak for themselves, Monsieur …’
‘Facts, as you well know, Pamplemousse, can be distorted beyond measure in a court of law. Besides, it is all there, the whole sordid incident. Recorded for posterity on infrared film. The Mother Superior entering shot innocently going about her nightly duties without a care in the world. Her worry beads an unnecessary adjunct to her peace of mind. The next moment, there she is, lying on the path with her assailant spreadeagled on top of her.’
‘Infrared film?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In a seminary?’ It was no wonder the photograph in Figaro had a strange, almost surreal quality to it.
‘The nun in charge of security happens to be an ex-lawyer who has taken the vow,’ said the Director. ‘In her time she specialised in prosecutions involving crimes committed against other members of her sex. Fellow man is not a phrase that springs happily to her lips. That is why I fear the worst. She will leave no stone unturned until she brings you to book. It needs but one of your ex-colleagues to point their finger, or Paris Match to scent a possible scandal and send one of their ace reporters. I shudder to think what will happen if word reaches Rome. Sales of our Italian edition will plummet.
‘But you know as well as I do what the press are like once they get the bit between their teeth. Fortunately, the friend who alerted me managed to kill the story before it went too far. So far only one journal has picked it up, but it is only a matter of time. Some young blood anxious to prove himself must have dug up an old photograph taken at the time of your unfortunate affair with the chorus girls at the Folies and put two and two together, only this time it will be much worse. There are those who would argue that mathematically speaking one Mother Superior is equal to, or greater than, a whole line of chorus girls. I can see the headlines now: “Pamplemousse Strikes Again.”’
‘A good lawyer would tear it to pieces, Monsieur …’
‘Good lawyers cost money, Aristide. Besides, where there is smoke more often than not there is fire and mud sticks.’
Faced with such a barrage of unarguable aphorisms Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated.
‘What do you suggest, Monsieur?’ he asked meekly.
‘There is only one course open to us,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘You must lie low for a while. It will blow over. These things always do. My informant has seen to that. To use a technical expression, the story has been spiked for the time being, and so far neither Figaro nor any of the other journaux have made the connection with Le Guide. We must ensure it stays that way.
‘Alors!’ The Director raised his hands to high heaven before consulting the folder once again. ‘I have been reading your annual medical report. The word “stress” is mentioned several times. We have perhaps been overworking you of late. One forgets you are no longer as young as you were. We none of us are. Perhaps you should have a thorough check-up.’
‘Madame Pamplemousse would not be happy, Monsieur. She takes the view that if things are working they are best left alone.’
‘Nonsense, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely. ‘I’m sure you take your car in for a regular service. Why should you balk at the thought of taking your own body in for a check-up simply because the doctor might find something wrong with it?’
‘Had I gone into the sea at Boulogne as instructed,’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I may have needed a post-mortem. As Monsieur may well discover when it is his turn,’ he added meaningly.
The Director brushed aside the interruption with what might have been construed by some as unseemly haste.
‘I gave the matter considerable thought on my way into the office this morning, Aristide,’ he began, ‘and it seems to me that this unhappy affair could be an opportunity to kill several oiseaux with one stone. Clearly both you and Pommes Frites need to keep a low profile for the time being. At least until all the fuss has died down. Equally clearly a rest would not come amiss for both of you.’
As if to underline what the Director was saying, Pommes Frites gave vent to a loud snore at that point.
‘He is still recovering from his birthday celebrations,’ explained Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We spent the evening in a local waterside bistro and one thing led to another …’
‘Please,’ Monsieur Leclercq held up his hand, ‘spare me the sordid details, Pamplemousse. It simply goes to prove my point. A change of scene will do you both the world of good. A breath of fresh country air … a chance to recharge your respective batteries.
‘One might almost say, Aristide,’ he continued casually, and had Monsieur Pamplemousse not momentarily lowered his guard while he allowed his mind to dwell on other matters, it might have struck him as being perhaps a little too casual, ‘… one might almost say that a spell close to your roots might work wonders. It will give you a chance to take stock as it were. In short, what I have in mind is a week in the Auvergne.’
Monsieur Leclercq paused to let his announcement sink in, and while doing so gazed affectionately at the portrait on the wall, almost as though he were about to genuflect, but in the end he thought better of it.
‘Strangely enough,’ continued the Director, ‘it was to the Auvergne that I was sent by our founder shortly after I joined Le Guide. I haven’t been back since. It was before I was married and I suspect Chantal would find it a little too rugged for her tastes. Queuing for a shower at the end of a long corridor in the morning along with half a dozen hardy individuals with hairy legs is not exactly her idea of fun; she prefers her creature comforts. But I remember it well. I felt the whole thing was a kind of test and I very nearly blotted my copybook.
‘It was early autumn and the patron of the very first hostelry I stayed at served the most delicious pommes aligot. It was made with very young cantal cheese.
‘And crème fraiche of course.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was unable to resist breaking in.
‘Of course. But you must remember it was the first time I had ever tasted it and it was an eye-opener. As an accompaniment to a simple crépinette of pig’s liver and mixed vegetables fresh from the garden, the whole wrapped in lacy caul fat and cooked in the oven, it was nothing short of sensational.
‘I had begun the meal with tiny local sausages wrapped in pastry, and afterwards I was given the most delicious pie made with pears and walnuts.
‘On the strength of what I must admit in hindsight was a somewhat flowery report, a number of readers drove all the way down from Paris to dine there, but he was a curmudgeonly old character and often he wouldn’t let them in. Those who did manage to get a table couldn’t understand a word he was saying. There were numerous complaints and for a while my career was in jeopardy. It taught me a valuable lesson though, and Monsieur Duval had the good sense to see it that way.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse could picture it all. He had come across such people before, especially in the remoter parts of the Auvergne. Individualists who behaved as though they had a grudge against society. You wondered how on earth they had ever become involved in running a hotel. And yet, unable to read or write, they often cooked like a dream.
‘I can still recall the hills with cattle grazing in fields of yellow gentian,’ mused the Director. ‘Peat bogs with their tiny herbaceous willow trees in the valleys. The surprise at suddenly coming across vast areas of extinct volcanoes, and the mountains with their fields awash with wild flowers. The occasional buron, those stone huts shepherds used to take shelter in. And everywhere you went, hams hanging from the joists and fresh water bubbling up out of the ground. But most of all I remember the fresh, clean air of the mountains.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shifted in his chair as Monsieur Leclercq began to wax lyrical. He felt tempted to say that they were the only things about the Auvergne which were memorable, but he knew better than to interrupt Monsieur Leclercq when he had the bit between his teeth.
‘I remember, too, the wild salmon from the Allier,’ continued the Director. ‘Do you realise, Aristide, that some two years after they are born they swim downriver to the sea and travel as far afield as Greenland, there to feed on the shrimps which give them their colour, before swimming all the way back to the place of their birth. Perhaps, Aristide, although your own marine activities hardly qualify to be mentioned in the same breath, you, too, should return to the place of your birth.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse could contain himself no longer. ‘All you say may be true of the Auvergne in the late spring and summer, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘But the summers are short-lived and we are talking about the depths of winter. In winter it is worse than Boulogne.’
‘There you go again, Pamplemousse,’ snorted the Director. ‘This negative attitude of yours is becoming a habit. It ill becomes you …’
‘But, Monsieur, the climate is harsh. Roads are often impassable from December to May. There is ice on the inside of the windows. People have been known to die of the cold. There is a very good reason why half the bistros in Paris are owned by men from the Auvergne. They escaped from it all as soon as they were old enough.’
‘Pamplemousse.’ The Director gathered the papers on his desk into a neat pile. ‘It is an order. I have booked you in at Dulac under Le Guide’s newly instituted code name of the week – Monsieur Blanc.’
‘Dulac!’ Mention of the Auvergne’s only three Stock Pot hotel stopped Monsieur Pamplemousse dead in his tracks. Owing to Le Guide’s policy of never using their Inspectors on home territory for fear they might be recognised, it had never occurred to him that he might be given the chance of a visit. It was a signal, perhaps never to be repeated, honour, and certainly not one to be turned down in a hurry.
‘It is open in February?’ Pouligny was only a matter of twenty or so kilometres from where he had been born. It was the nearest village of any size and in his day it had boasted two hotels. But like most establishments in the region their opening and closing times during the winter months had been variable to say the least.
‘All through the year. It is the only hotel in France for which Michelin have seen fit to create a special symbol of a snowplough rampant. They have a fleet of them standing by ready for any emergency. Subject to your findings, Pamplemousse, I suggest we follow suit in next year’s Guide.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a surge of excitement. Despite his earlier misgivings, taste buds began to show signs of life. André Dulac’s was a rare, a God-given talent. His rise to fame had been nothing short of meteoric. Taking over the hotel from his father and starting off with a mere Bar Stool – the symbol indicating it was worth stopping off for lunch if you happened to be in the area, he had gone on to win his first Stock Pot a year later. Following that with an additional Stock Pot every two years, until he reached the maximum of three was unheard of.
The Director allowed himself a smile. ‘I thought that might cause you to change your tune, Aristide. A different kettle of poisson, n’est-ce pas?’
‘I have yet to visit it myself. That is a pleasure yet to come. But in the meantime, in the most discreet possible way you could perhaps combine business with pleasure. The time is coming up when we must finalise the entries for this year’s Guide. As I’m sure you know, our computer has just completed its analysis of all the year’s reports, a mammoth task, and its printout shows that Dulac is in line for this year’s top award, the Golden Stock Pot Lid. It is a toss-up between Dulac and Ducasse, with the odds, the merest fraction of a decimal point, in favour of Dulac. Not even Ducasse can be in two places at once, and since he donned Robuchon’s mantle in Paris as well as still keeping a watchful eye on the stoves at Monte Carlo doubts have been raised.
‘But in the past few weeks strange reports have been coming through regarding Dulac. First there was the unfortunate business of the recycled lettuce leaf. You heard about that, of course?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. He’d been in the North at the time, but news had spread like wildfire. Guilot, an acknowledged expert on all things to do with salad ingredients, had been paying a routine visit. Ordering a simple saladeverte to accompany his filets de veau au citron he was prepared to swear that, far from being freshly prepared, one of the leaves was sodden and had clearly been recycled from a previous serving.
‘It can happen, Monsieur.’
‘Not in a three Stock Pot establishment, Pamplemousse. Especially not in a three Stock Pot establishment in line for our supreme accolade of a Chapeau d’Or.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took the implied reproof in good part. The Director was right, of course. Standards must never be allowed to slip; not for a second, otherwise they were all wasting their time. It made a mockery of the whole thing.
Reputations built up over the years could be destroyed in a moment.
‘Now, there is Loudier.’
‘How is he, Monsieur?’
‘He has been offered counselling, but so far he has refused it.’
It was a cruel twist of fate. It was poor old Loudier, the doyen of the Inspectors and now nearing retirement, who had been largely responsible for putting Monsieur Dulac’s name forward for the award of his first Stock Pot. In those days the hotel had been known simply as the Hôtel Moderne. Then Dulac had called it after his grandfather, Prosper Dulac. It wasn’t until the award of the third Stock Pot that it had become plain Dulac and by that time he was already in grand new premises just outside the village.
After the affair of the lettuce leaf it was Loudier who had been sent to give the establishment a final pre-publication check. It had been largely meant as a treat on the Director’s part, but he had returned in haste to recount a particularly nasty experience with a worm.
‘Is it true he found it in his salade parmentière, Monsieur?’
‘Worse, Pamplemousse. It was half a lumbricidae. A large one, clearly fresh from the jardin.’
‘Which end, Monsieur?’
‘The end is immaterial, Pamplemousse. A worm is a worm. Not wishing to reveal his identity, Loudier managed to contain himself until he was outside where he deposited it whence it came from. The mark of a true professional.’
‘You mentioned killing several birds with one stone, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, quickly changing the subject. ‘Do I take it there is another oiseau to be slain?’
‘Ah, yes, Aristide.’ The Director made play of pretending he had forgotten. ‘Thank you for reminding me. Rather than drive down in your deux chevaux, which may well be under scrutiny by the media, I wonder if you could possibly do an old friend of mine a small favour?
‘It is a matter of finding someone reliable to deliver what is known as a “Twingo” to an address in Roanne. I’m sure you know the model. They are currently all the rage; much in demand by the “in” set. Every other car parked outside the boutiques in the avenue Montaigne seems to be one.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. ‘And after I have delivered it, Monsieur? It is still another fifty kilometres or so to Pouligny.’
The Director brushed the problem aside. ‘You can either hire a car to complete the journey or else use a taxi. Either way, at the end of your stay you and Pommes Frites can return to Paris by train.’
‘When would you like me to leave, Monsieur?’
Monsieur Leclercq glanced down at his watch. ‘Now seems as good a time as any, Pamplemousse.’
‘Now?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse sat bolt upright. ‘But I haven’t even unpacked from my last trip.’
‘So much the better,’ said the Director unfeelingly. ‘Procrastination is the thief of time. The sooner you set off the better. I suggest tomorrow morning at the very latest.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter for a moment or two. He was aware of how fortunate he was. On the other hand everything was happening much too quickly for his liking. When he’d arrived at the office that morning, he hadn’t known quite what to expect. What he certainly hadn’t bargained for was going off on his travels again quite so soon. Doucette would not be pleased.
From somewhere he heard a disembodied voice saying, ‘Of course, Monsieur.’
The Director looked relieved as he rose from his chair. Clearly the whole thing had been preying on his mind.
‘I would prefer it if you didn’t mention this to anyone, Aristide. It might be misconstrued in some quarters.’
‘Of course, Monsieur.’
‘Good.’ Monsieur Leclercq removed a piece of white pasteboard from his wallet and made the journey round his desk in record time. ‘Here is the address where the car is to be collected. I will ensure that it is ready first thing tomorrow morning along with the rest of your instructions.
