Monsieur Pamplemousse Rests His Case E-Book

Michael Bond

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Monsieur Pamplemousse Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 277

Beschreibung

Ever eager to expand the influence of France's leading gastronomic guidebook beyond her native shores, the Director of Le Guide has been cultivating a useful transatlantic connection in the form of a certain Mrs Van Dorman. Ex-parfumier, presently a publishing magnate and, in her spare time,a fan of private-eye novels, Mrs Van Dorman has deserted the relative safety of La Grande Pomme to accompany a group of crime writers to a recreation in Vichy of a banquet given by Alexandre Dumas before he started work on yet another sequel to The Three Musketeers. And who better to escort her than Monsieur Pamplemousse, Surete sleuth turned top-rank gourmet? Monsieur Pamplemousse himself could think of a number of more suitable candidates, especially when it becomes apparent that the assignment involves a grand entry dressed as d'Artagnan, mounted on an uncomfortably rampant black charger. But when cyanide turns out to be a surprise ingredient of the murder tour it is soon clear that Monsieur Pamplemousse - aided by the unerring nose of bloodhound Pommes Frites - is the only man for the job...

Leseprobe

MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE RESTS HIS CASE

Michael Bond

CONTENTS

Title Page1 HANDS ACROSS THE OCEAN2 FAMOUS LAST WORDS3 TROUBLED WATERS4 DINNER WITH DUMAS5 THE LONE STRANGER6 COMINGS AND GOINGS7 PUTTING OUT THE CREAM8 THE BALLOON GOES UPAlso by Michael BondCopyright

1

HANDS ACROSS THE OCEAN

The Director settled himself comfortably in the leather armchair behind his desk, shuffled a few papers nervously to and fro across the top, carefully covering as he did so a large map of the United States of America, then cleared his throat as he brought both hands together to form a miniature steeple with his fingertips.

Recognising the signs, Monsieur Pamplemousse sought reassurance by giving the top of Pommes Frites’ head a passing pat, then sat back waiting for the worst. He wondered idly if it would be a case of being addressed by his surname or by his Christian name. From the shape of the steeple – high and severely orthodox – he guessed at the former. The Director was wearing his official look: a mixture of barely concealed disapproval and distaste of what he was about to say. He cleared his throat a second time.

‘Pamplemousse, I have no doubt that in your previous occupation – I refer, of course, to your years with the Sûreté – you had need from time to time to consult the CodeNapoléon?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse made a non-committal grunt. There had been more than one occasion when he would gladly have seized hold of a copy, preferably a leather-bound edition, and used it in order to batter a particularly belligerent or uncooperative offender into telling the truth, but he sensed it was neither the time nor the place to say so.

‘Good.’ The Director picked up a sheet of paper. ‘That makes my task easier. I would like, if I may, to draw your attention to Article 1101: the definition of a contract.

‘It states, and I quote: “A contract is a convention by which one or several persons commit themselves towards one or several other persons to give, to do, or not to do something.”

‘I’m sure you will agree that the extract I have just read is a masterpiece of construction. The wording is concise – a mere twenty-eight words; the meaning crystal clear and unassailable.’

Seeing that something more than a mere grunt was expected of him, Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded his agreement. There was no point in doing otherwise.

‘I am pleased you agree, Pamplemousse. To carry matters a stage further, in accepting your present post as an Inspector with LeGuide, you committed yourself to a contract. Why, then, when I arrived at my office this morning, did I find a letter of resignation on my desk? I have, of course, torn it up, but I think I deserve an explanation.’

‘The answer is perfectly simple, Monsieur. It was in response to your memo of yesterday’s date asking me to stand by for further instructions. By the merest chance I happened to be passing the Operations Room and when I went inside I saw where they had put my flag. Not, as I had every good reason to expect, in the SectionVacances, but lying on its side in the pending tray. The staff were unusually evasive and I began putting two and two together. It did not take me long to come up with an answer. One which, if I may say so, is certainly not covered by the CodeNapoléon.’

The Director made a clucking noise. ‘My dear Pamplemousse, everything is covered by the CodeNapoléon. If it is not in the CodeNapoléon, then it does not exist. In their wisdom, its authors made sure the document covered every conceivable eventuality; from the laws which govern our country, to the way one should behave when visiting a public garden; from the manner in which letters should be written – the various forms of address and the correct phrasing of salutations, down to the time it should take a concierge to clean her front door-step.’

He rose to his feet, went to the window, and gazed out across the esplanade towards the Hôtel des Invalides and the vast golden dome which protected its illustrious occupant from the elements.

‘Were he alive today, Pamplemousse, the Emperor would not be best pleased. If one believed in such things, one might hazard a guess that he is at this very moment turning in his tomb, thus causing consternation among those tourists from all over the world who have tendered good money in order to pay their respects.’

‘With equal respect, Monsieur, were he alive today and in my shoes I think he would have good reason to be restive. The Emperor Napoléon may have covered every eventuality which he could possibly have foreseen at that period in history, but times change. Had he been born a century and a half later, and had he found himself working for LeGuide, he could well have had second thoughts on the subject; he might even have toyed with the idea of introducing a possible escape clause to Article 1101; an “insofar as” perhaps, or even a simple phrase like saufexceptions – “with certain exceptions”; parexemple, requests beyond the call of duty, particularly if it been his understanding that he was about to enjoy a well-deserved holiday with the Empress Joséphine.’

The Director heaved a sigh and turned away from the window. Clearly, as he crossed to his drinks cupboard and removed a bottle from the ice-bucket he was preparing himself for another form of attack; a diversionary move of some kind aimed at lulling his adversary into a false sense of security prior to a sudden flanking movement.

A brief glimpse of the label confirmed Monsieur Pamplemousse’s suspicions. The Chief must have been expecting trouble, otherwise why would he have had a bottle of Gosset champagne chilled and at the ready when his normal preference was for Louis Roederer? The answer was simple. He knew the tastes of his staff.

‘Come, come, Aristide … you must not take too narrow a view of life. There are wider horizons than the one which can be seen from this window, or even from wherever it was you and Madame Pamplemousse intended spending your holiday together. Horizons which have much to offer. It is my belief that if LeGuide is to flourish and prepare itself for entering the twenty-first century we cannot afford to stand still. We must lay the foundation stones for the future, and we must lay them now. The recent computerisation was but a first step. Now that that particular mountain has been successfully conquered, we must put our facilities and our expertise to good use. We must expand into other areas. In particular we must look towards the New World. I am sure it is what our founder, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, would have wished.’

The Director diverted his attention momentarily towards a painting which occupied a goodly portion of the wall above his head. Following the direction of the other’s gaze, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but reflect that its principal subject, depicted by the artist toying with a bowl of moulesmarinières outside a country inn, might not have looked quite so relaxed had the river which formed the background to the picture been the Hudson rather than the Marne. By all accounts he might have felt the need to keep a more watchful eye on his bicycle, chaining it to a convenient fire hydrant for a start, instead of leaving it unattended against a nearby tree.

‘Others have made a stab at it. For several years now Gault-Millau have published a guide to New York – and a very good little book it is too, even though it suffers from their usual inability to avoid the bonmot at other people’s expense. But no one on this side of the Atlantique, not even Michelin, has attempted a gastronomic guide to the whole country. It is an enormous, a mind-boggling task …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse half rose from his seat. He didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. ‘You are surely not suggesting, Monsieur, that I should move to America? Madame Pamplemousse would never agree to it. As for Pommes Frites …’

Hearing his name mentioned, Pommes Frites opened one bloodshot eye and fastened it unblinkingly on the figure hovering by the drinks cabinet. It signalled his agreement in no uncertain manner to whatever point his master might be making.

‘No, no, Aristide, of course not.’ The Director made haste to relieve his audience of any possible misunderstanding. ‘I am merely looking into the future – the very distant future. For the moment we must content ourselves with exploring the possibilities. To that end, while I was in New York recently I made contact with the publisher of an up and coming gourmet magazine – a Mrs Van Dorman. She is a charming lady, but I suspect life in the Big Apple has passed her by to some extent. She has already carved out one successful career in the perfume business. Now she finds herself heading a publishing conglomerate which has set its sights on Europe.

‘We established a certain rapport, the upshot of which is that she has given me a long list of establishments in the USA which could well form the basis of a guide, and in return I promised her that if she was ever in this country and in need of help I would be happy to reciprocate to the best of my ability. That moment has arrived, Pamplemousse; rather sooner than expected I have to admit – it is only a matter of weeks since we first discussed the matter – but a promise is a promise and I must do my best to slot her in.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse winced. Ever since he had arrived back from America, the Director – normally a staunch upholder of all that was sacred in the French language – had taken to peppering his speech with words and phrases which would have caused even the most catholic member of the Académie Française to reel back in horror had they been present. ‘Slotting things in’ was the least of his transgressions. Ideas had become ‘creative concepts’, and ‘potentials’ were constantly being ‘maximised’.

‘It is her first visit to Europe and I can think of no one better qualified to act as her guide and mentor while she is in La Belle France than your good self. I would take on the task myself, but alas …’ The Director raised his hands in despair. ‘It is one of the problems of going away, Aristide. There are a thousand things to catch up on … planning next year’s edition of LeGuide … making sure those who qualify receive their annual increments.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I believe your own salary comes up for review quite soon …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director’s reflection in the mirrored interior of the cupboard. At least he had the grace to concentrate on the task in hand – the removal of the cork, silently and expertly, and the pouring of the champagne, tasks which kept his head bowed, thus enabling him to avoid a direct meeting of the eyes.

‘What I am suggesting is surely not so outrageous? It could be a pleasant break from routine.’

‘Madame Pamplemousse will certainly consider it outrageous, Monsieur. She will say I am an Inspector, not a tour guide.

‘And what of the language problem?’

‘Mrs Van Dorman has a little French, I believe. Enough. Besides, it does not seem to have hampered you in the past. What you cannot put into words you manage to convey all too successfully by whatever other means are at your disposal. What was the name of that English woman in the Hautes Pyrénées? Madame Cosgrove? As I recall, inhibitions were somewhat thrown to the wind on that occasion; lack of a common language did not prove to be an insurmountable barrier.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse chose to ignore the remark. Instead he tried another tack.

‘I have to take my car into a blacksmith for a major repair, Monsieur.’

‘A blacksmith, Pamplemousse?’

‘I am having trouble with one of the doors. It has to do with the hinges. As you know, it is an early deuxchevaux and the particular part is in short supply. I have been teaching Madame Pamplemousse to drive and it is not easy. We had an encounter with a camion in the rue Marcadet. As you may know, it is a one-way street. Unfortunately we were travelling in the wrong direction …’

‘Why is it, Pamplemousse, that whenever you don’t wish to go somewhere there is always trouble with your car? I sometimes suspect you use it as an excuse. It’s high time you either bought a new one or made use of a company car like everyone else. Anyway, it will have to wait.’

‘I did promise Doucette I would try and slot her in for another lesson this week in preparation for our holiday, Monsieur.’

The Director eyed him suspiciously as he returned to his chair. He placed two long-stemmed glasses on the desk, motioning Monsieur Pamplemousse to help himself.

‘Many people would consider my proposal a signal honour, Aristide. But perhaps I haven’t explained myself sufficiently well.’

Drinking deeply from his glass, he uncovered the map and set about the task of unfolding it. ‘America is a large country; a land of boundless opportunity.

‘So far I have only tasted the delights of LaGrandePomme, but I cannot wait to savour other areas. New York is an exciting city, of course: a mixture of extremes. There are undercurrents which are hard to put a finger on, let alone explain. But in the same way that Paris cannot be called France, neither is New York the be all and end all of the New World. AmériqueduNord isn’t all hamburgers with French fries on the side …’

‘I understand they also have frankfurters, Monsieur … and doughnuts.’

‘Don’t be so chauvinistic, Pamplemousse. It is unworthy of you. It ignores the fact that they also have homards from Maine, red snappers from the Gulf of Mexico, crayfish from Louisiana, salmon from Oregon, prawns from Monterey, suckling pigs from Amador County, beef from Texas, and wines from the Napa Valley … the list is endless.

‘They also, I may say, possess boundless enthusiasm for whatever project they happen to be involved in; a quality many of us would do well to emulate.’ The Director paused in order to allow the implied criticism time to reach its target and sink in.

‘Currently, Pamplemousse, as I am sure you know, there is a fashion in certain gastronomic circles for recreating some of the great meals of the past – both in fact and fiction. The worst excesses of nouvellecuisine are now behind us and people are turning to their history books.

‘I understand there is a restaurant in London which has recreated on more than one occasion the meal on which the film Babette’sFeast was based. I, myself, was lucky enough to be present only recently at a very grand occasion in the Bois de Boulogne when a whole bevy of chefs, Robuchon, Lenôtre, Dutournier, and others, prepared a Pre-Revolutionary Banquet at the behest of one of the great Champagne houses.

‘But when it comes to the grand gesture, the kind of function where money is no object, then one has to hand it to our friends on the other side of the Atlantic. In order to achieve their objective the question of money doesn’t arise. In 1973 the Culinary Institute of America held a feast commemorating Sherlock Holmes at which a hundred guests sat down to a feast of some thirteen courses culled from the works of Conan Doyle.

‘It is a quest of this nature which brings Mrs Van Dorman to our shores and she has sought my advice. She is acting as escort to a group of American crime writers who have a particular interest in culinary matters. They are members of a very élite society – LeCercledeSix. They meet only once a year and on each occasion they choose a different venue.

‘Last year it was Death Row in Alcatraz. The year before that they diced with the possibility of their own demise by eating fugu fish in Tokyo. This time it is the turn of Vichy.’

‘Vichy?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his chief in surprise.

‘That seems a very odd choice, Monsieur. With all due respect to the chefs of that estimable city, some of whom have a place in LeGuide, I do not recall Stock Pots lying thick on the ground. People usually go there for the waters. They are more concerned with not eating rather than the reverse.’

‘The good chefs of Vichy may well surprise us, Aristide. It could be that they will seize the opportunity with both hands. Think what it must be like to spend one’s life cooking for people whose main preoccupation lies in the contemplation of their liver. How they must long to be able to tear up their calorie charts, throw caution to the wind, add a little extra cream here, another slab of beurre there, and indulge themselves just for once …’

‘Nevertheless, Monsieur, it is not a place one would normally choose for a gastronomic extravaganza.’

The Director made a clucking noise. ‘Not all the establishments in Vichy are like the Merveilleux, Aristide.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. In all the time he had been working for LeGuide it was the first occasion on which the Director had dropped so much as a hint that he might have been involved in something that had happened soon after he’d joined: a kind of initiation ceremony.

The Merveilleux had been one of his first ports of call. He’d been sent there in order to determine whether or not the hotel restaurant was suitable Stock Pot material – the award given by LeGuide when the cuisine was above average and worthy of a special visit; on a par with Michelin’s rosettes and Gault-Millau’s toques.

The memory of that evening had remained with him for a long time; the hush which had fallen over the other diners when he’d asked for the àlacartemenu, only to be told there was no choice. The meal that followed was indelibly etched on his mind – veloutédetapioca followed by carrottesVichy followed by fruitsdesaison. Clearly, from the meagre offering of the last course, it had been a bad season for fruit farmers.

Never had he eaten so many grapes at one sitting. In the end the waitress had taken the bowl away from him. And never had he felt so lonely.

Sleep had eluded him that night, as it had Pommes Frites, who was convinced he had done something wrong and was being punished; a conviction which wasn’t helped through his having drunk too deeply of the local water, losing his voice as a result.

Monsieur Pamplemousse had got his own back by writing a report eulogising in great depth on his meal, fabricating a story which involved a change of ownership and a young chef destined for stardom. Another Inspector had been dispatched post haste, and from that moment on, although the Director had never referred to the matter, he had been accepted as part of the team.

‘Anyway, Pamplemousse,’ the Director broke into his thoughts, ‘ours is not to reason why. I have to admit I asked myself the same question when I first heard of the venue. But it appears it is one of those occasions when outsiders know more about the history of a country than do its inhabitants.

‘In order to find the answer one has to turn to the life and works of Alexandre Dumas. You know, of course, that he compiled one of the great culinary works of all time: LeGrandDictionnairedeCuisine.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had to confess it was a gap in his education. ‘I am aware of it, Monsieur, but I have never read it.’

‘Ah, then you must, Aristide, you really must. It is more than a mere cookery book – it is a distillation of things learned during a whole lifetime of good eating and entertaining. It deserves to stand alongside the works of Brillat-Savarin. Sadly, it was his last work. He delivered the manuscript to his publisher, Alphonse Lemerre, in March 1870. Shortly afterwards the Franco-Prussian War broke out and publication was delayed. He died at his house just outside Dieppe while it was still at the printers.’ Reaching down, the Director opened a desk drawer and removed a large, leather-bound volume. ‘I will lend you my copy. I’m sure it will appeal to you.’

‘Merci,Monsieur.’ Feeling that in accepting the offer he was somehow entering into a commitment, but unable to see a way out of his predicament, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached across and took the book.

‘As is so often the case,’ continued the Director, ‘love of food and cooking went hand in hand with the appreciation and love of other good things in life; art – he was a great friend of Monet – conversation, and, naturally, of women. One summer he took a house called the Villa André on the outskirts of Vichy in order to begin work on yet another sequel to TheThreeMusketeers. Before he started work he decided to put himself in the right frame of mind by preparing a banquet for a few close friends who were staying with him at the time. His collaborator, Auguste Maquet, was there … the painter Courbet … and Courbet’s mistress, Madame de Sauvignon.

‘And what a meal, Aristide. Let me read you a little of the menu.

‘They began with a recipe of Dumas’ own invention – Potageàlacrevette, and for an horsd’oeuvres they had lampreys – cooked as they should be – in their own blood; a rare delicacy these days. Asperge came hard on the heels of the lampreys, followed by ortolans roasted on the spit.

‘But the main course, the piècederésistance, served after palates had been cleansed by water ices, was Rôtieàl’Impératrice.

‘You start with an olive, remove the stone and replace it with some anchovy. Then you put the olive into a lark, the lark into a quail, the quail into a partridge, the partridge into a pheasant, the pheasant into a turkey, and then the turkey into a suckling pig. The rest is up to the chef.

‘They ended the meal with peaches in red wine, pears with bacon, and fromage.

‘Think of the ergonomics of preparing such a feast, Aristide. Imagine going into a boucherie or a poissonnerie today with such an order and asking them to ensure that every ingredient is in exactly the right state of readiness. And remember, this was long before the days of electric refrigeration.

‘No doubt after such a feast the rest of the company departed to take the cure in nearby Vichy and left him in peace to write.’

‘And it is that feast LeCercledeSix are hoping to recreate, Monsieur?’

‘Down to the very last detail.’

In spite of all he had said, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt himself wavering. It was an opportunity that might never occur again. Already he could see an article for L’Escargot – the staff magazine. Feeling a movement at his feet he glanced down and then wished he hadn’t. The Director would not be pleased when he saw the state of his carpet. Pommes Frites, who had been hanging on his every word, was positively trembling with excitement. Drool issued unregarded from his mouth.

‘I will see what Madame Pamplemousse has to say.’ He knew exactly what Doucette would have to say when he arrived home and broke the news to her that their holiday would have to be put back. He was in for a bad evening. Lips would be pursed; sighs interspersed with recriminations. It wouldn’t be the first occasion. His time in the Sûreté had been one long series of cancelled holidays.

‘I will do my best, Monsieur. I cannot say more.’

‘Good. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’ The Director rose from his chair. ‘Let us shake hands on it, then I will recharge our glasses so that we may drink to the venture.’ For some reason he appeared to be growing agitated again; his hand, usually firm and dry, felt moist.

‘You must have your photograph taken on the night, Aristide,’ he called. ‘Madame Pamplemousse may like one for the mantelpiece.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse contemplated the back of the Director’s head. He seemed to be taking an inordinately long time over the simple task of pouring a second glass of champagne.

‘May I ask, Monsieur, what is so special about the occasion that Madame Pamplemousse would like a photograph of me for the mantelpiece? She is well used to seeing me eat.’

Privately he felt it would be the last thing he would want to give Doucette. It would act as a constant reminder of things that might have been. It would always be ‘the picture taken of Aristide enjoying himself the year we had to postpone our holiday’.

He realised the Director was speaking again.

‘I was saying, Aristide, it isn’t often we see you, how shall I put it? – àtravesti.’

‘Comment,Monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse came down to earth with a bump, wondering if he had heard aright. ‘Did I hear the words “fancy dress”?’

‘You did, Aristide. I have given the matter a lot of thought and I think it will be singularly apposite if you go to the banquet dressed as d’Artagnan. It is not, I will freely admit, what is known in the world of the cinema as “type casting” – I would hardly describe you as the athletic sort. “Dashing” is not a word which springs immediately to mind, neither is “swashbuckling”. However, beggars can’t be choosers.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse rose to his feet. It was the final straw. ‘In that case, Monsieur,’ he said coldly. ‘I suggest you send someone else.’

‘Sit down, Pamplemousse. Sit down. You make me nervous when you jump up and down like that. Mrs Van Dorman is entering into the spirit of things. She is going in costume of the period. You can hardly let France down by appearing in a lounge suit.

‘Anyway, it isn’t possible to send anyone else.’ The Director strove hard to keep a note of irritation from his voice. ‘As you are well aware, June is a busy time of the year. We drew lots yesterday morning and you came up with the short straw. Or rather, in your absence Glandier drew it for you.’

‘Glandier!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director. Things were starting to fall into place. He knew at the time it had been a mistake to take time off in order to go shopping with his wife. Shopping with Doucette was never a happy experience at the best of times; tempers were liable to become frayed. When she couldn’t find the dress she wanted she had a habit of staring at the empty rack as though hoping something would materialise. That it never did and never would made no difference. All the same, it hadn’t occurred to him that while he was drumming in Galeries LaFayette dark deeds were afoot.

‘Have you not seen Glandier at the staff annual outing, Monsieur? He is the one who always brings along his conjuring outfit. He does the three-card trick better than anyone I know. He can make a lapin appear out of his hat as soon as look at it. They say he even has a black cloth on the table when he dines at home so that he can practise in front of his wife!’

‘Pamplemousse!’ The Director looked mortally offended. ‘You are surely not suggesting …’

‘Oui, Monsieur. That is exactly what I am suggesting. I demand another draw.’

‘I am sorry, Pamplemousse. That is quite out of the question. The straws have been returned to the canteen. Besides, you are the only one left. The rest of the staff have gone their separate ways.’

‘As quickly as possible I would imagine,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily. ‘You probably couldn’t see them for dust.’

He ought to have known something was afoot from the smug way Glandier had said ‘Bonnechance’ when they met on the stairs that morning. He’d been carrying his going-away valise as well.

Other encounters came to mind; or rather, non-encounters. Looking back on it everyone had seemed only too anxious to hurry about their business, which was unusual to say the least. Most of them were away from base so much during the year they were normally only too pleased to seize on any chance of catching up on the latest gossip.

‘As part of our contribution to the event I have engaged a group of local thespians to play the part of Dumas and his guests – it will add a touch of colour. Mrs Van Dorman has expressed a wish to go as d’Artagnan’s projected mistress in the new work, a certain Madame Joyeux. All in all, it promises to be an exciting evening.’

‘I do not think that is a very good idea, Monsieur. It may be apposite if I go as d’Artagnan, but being accompanied by my mistress is fraught with danger.’

The Director clucked impatiently. ‘Must you take everything so literally, Pamplemousse? It will be in name only.’

‘It is precisely the name, Monsieur, which will bother Madame Pamplemousse most. She is even more likely to take it literally than I do when I tell her.’

The Director looked startled. ‘Tell her, Pamplemousse? Is that wise? Is it strictly nécessaire?’

‘Oui, Monsieur.’

‘But this is most unlike you. Need she ever know?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows. ‘You have met Doucette, Monsieur. She will know. Over the years she has developed a sixth sense in such matters.’

‘Mmm. Yes, I see what you mean.’

‘Besides,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse virtuously. ‘I have decided to turn over a new leaf. Life is too short to spend it arguing. Ever since La Rochelle …’

‘La Rochelle?’ The Director sat bolt upright and gazed at Monsieur Pamplemousse with interest. ‘What happened in La Rochelle, Aristide? You did not tell me about it.’

‘Nothing happened, Monsieur.’

‘Then what are you talking about?’

‘There was an unfortunate misunderstanding. Madame Pamplemousse telephoned me about something and the call was put through to my room.’

‘And?’

‘The chambermaid happened to pick up the receiver. She was turning the mattress at the time, and naturally she was breathing somewhat heavily.’

‘I must say, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely, ‘that in view of your past reputation I would be somewhat suspicious were I your wife – which, thank LeBonDieu, I am not – and I heard a young girl breathing heavily on the other end of the line.’

‘She was not young, Monsieur. That is why she was breathing heavily. I took a photograph of her to prove my point. Unfortunately, she happened to bend over just as I pressed the shutter release and Madame Pamplemousse came across the enlargement before I had a chance to explain. The matter has come up on a number of occasions since.’

‘All women nag, Aristide. They deny it, of course, but it is in their nature. Why only this morning my own dear wife informed me for the fourth or fifth time over breakfast that she never nags, and when I pointed out that repetition of certain remarks was in itself a form of nagging, all logic deserted her.’

‘I am simply saying, Monsieur, that in view of the present atmosphere I am – how shall I say? – on trial as it were. I wouldn’t wish Doucette to think I was deceiving her. Life would not be worth living. In the circumstances I shall have to tell her that I am being “accompanied” and I am not sure how she will take it.’

‘So be it, Pamplemousse.’ Clearly, now that he had got over the shock, the Director had filed it away in his mind as a domestic problem, and therefore no concern of his. ‘If it is of any consolation, I think you will find Mrs Van Dorman is hardly one of the grandeshorizontales. As a captain of her profession she has too many other things on her mind. Success can be very time-and energy-consuming as I know to my own cost.’

The Director managed to combine his dismissal of the problem with an airy wave of the hand which suggested he, too, had other more important matters awaiting his attention and that it was high time Monsieur Pamplemousse went on his way. For his part, Monsieur Pamplemousse was more than willing to oblige before anything else happened to disturb his peace of mind.

‘Your costume will be ready on the night. Fortunately there is an opera house in Vichy, much given I am told to revivals of works of the period. Everything has been arranged. It will be delivered to your hotel two days from now. Your cheval will be waiting at the gates to the Villa André so that you can make your entrance.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse was in the outer office before he absorbed the full import of the Director’s last words. He hesitated, wondering if he had heard aright, then knocked on the door again.

‘Entrez.’

The Director’s face fell as he caught sight of Monsieur Pamplemousse hovering in the doorway.

‘You used the word cheval,Monsieur? Do you mean … my deuxchevaux?’

Once again the Director had difficulty in stifling his impatience.

‘No, Pamplemousse, I do not mean your deuxchevaux, I mean uncheval. Had I meant deux I would have used the plural. If you are to play the part of a musketeer you must do things properly. You can hardly arrive for a nineteenth-century banquet at the wheel of a Citroën 2CV. It would be an anti-climax to say the least; somewhat akin to Cleopatra journeying down the Nile on a pedalo.’

‘But, Monsieur …’

‘Pamplemousse! I must say you are in a singularly difficult mood today. It is surely not asking too much of you to relinquish your car for one evening in the year. In short, to exchange your deuxchevaux for the real thing. Besides, you said yourself you are having trouble with the door. It will be a good opportunity to have it mended. Vichy is known for equestrian pursuits. It must be full of blacksmiths.’

‘I shall need riding lessons, Monsieur.’