Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation (3 page)

‘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
salade
verte
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.

‘Enjoy your drive. As for Dulac, I shall await your report with interest.
Bonne chance.’

‘What shall I tell the others,
Monsieur
?’

Monsieur Leclercq looked at him in some surprise. ‘Simply say you are on probation, Pamplemousse. Once word gets around the office about the goings on in Boulogne it will sound more than likely.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse knew from experience that the Director was a past master in the art of bringing an interview to an end, but even so it had to be something of a record.

He wasn’t even given the chance to say goodbye to Véronique. Before he had time to open his mouth, Monsieur Leclercq’s telephone rang, almost as though it were prearranged, and the farewell handshake was converted through the open doorway into a gesture denoting he required his secretary’s services. Véronique raised one eyebrow in mute apology as she swept past clutching her notebook.

Even Pommes Frites, normally alert to his master’s comings and goings, only just made it through the door before it closed firmly behind him.

Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged as he let himself out into the corridor.

How did the old saying go? ‘When one door shuts another opens.’ Part of the fun in life was not knowing where the next one would lead to.

Monsieur Pamplemousse dialled 01 49 36 10 10 for
Les Taxis Bleus
and waited a moment or two until a girl’s voice cut in over the synthesised music. He gave his telephone number, waited for her to come back confirming his address, then relaxed to the strains of music again.

‘
Un
Mercedes
gris
. Six minutes.’ Almost at once the girl’s voice broke in again, terminating their brief encounter with a click as she transferred her attention to the next customer in the queue. Having been lulled into a state of unreadiness, Monsieur Pamplemousse leapt into action. It was typical of life. Eight o’clock on a wet morning in Paris, when you would expect there to be delays, and what happened? You were left with six minutes to say your goodbyes, grab your belongings and race down
as many flights of stairs. At that time of day there was no point in waiting for the antiquated lift.

With Pommes Frites hot on his heels, he made it down to the street in a fraction over five minutes, his cheeks barely dry from Doucette’s farewell kiss.

The Place Marcel Aymé was deserted. There were no men lurking in doorways, cameras at the ready. Equally, there was no
Taxi Bleu
.

Monsieur Pamplemousse took shelter in the doorway while he got his breath back, leaving Pommes Frites to brave the drizzle as he made his way to the nearest lamp post. Exactly two minutes later there was a swish of water on wet cobblestones and a grey Mercedes pulled up at the kerb.

Seeing Monsieur Pamplemousse’s luggage the driver climbed out of the car, turned his jacket collar up, and with a certain amount of ill grace went round to the boot.

Monsieur Pamplemousse made great play of looking at his watch. ‘The traffic is bad today?’ he suggested as he made his way to the kerb. His joke fell as flat as the leaden sky above.

The man gave a grunt as he slammed the lid shut. ‘It is the hour of
affluence
.’

Clearly he was in no mood for pleasantries. Monsieur Pamplemousse handed over the card the Director had given him, then opened the rear door and stood waiting.

‘He is coming too?’ Catching sight of the driver staring at him, Pommes Frites pointedly shook himself dry before climbing into the back and making himself comfortable on the rear seat.

‘You have an objection?’

The driver glanced up at the rear-view mirror, decided against whatever it was he’d been about to say, and pressed a button on his meter instead. The standing charge went up. There was a price to pay for everything, especially wet bloodhounds making their presence felt.

Having executed a U-turn, they drove in silence back down the hill from Montmartre. Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t too sorry. He had other things on his mind and Pommes Frites looked equally happy to be left to his own devices as he attended to his ablutions.

After waiting for the lights at the bottom, they headed east along the rue Clignancourt, eventually meeting up with the boulevard Barbès, where they joined the stream of traffic heading south.

There was something odd about the whole thing. Normally, the details, the booking of a taxi and the arrangements for picking up the new car, would have been left to Véronique, but he had a feeling she knew nothing about it. She certainly hadn’t mentioned it when he’d arrived at the office the previous morning. It had been all commiserations
about his trip to Boulogne: a case of ‘there, but for the grace of the good Lord, go the rest of us, as we probably will in the fullness of time.’ The Director must have taken care of the whole thing himself.

He’d phoned through later in the day. ‘Make sure you reach Roanne soon after two o’clock, Pamplemousse’ had been his parting shot. ‘And don’t worry about filling in a P49. Let me know how much it all comes to and we’ll work it out when you get back.’ It could only mean he must be wanting to keep it from Madame Grante as well.

Doucette had been characteristically blunt about it. ‘You mark my words. He’s up to something. It doesn’t add up. He must have known about the car for some while. The business about your going into hiding only came up yesterday. It’s like Jules always says: “Nine times out of ten when people enquire the price of a house on behalf of a friend, it’s for themselves but they don’t want to let on.”’ Doucette’s brother was an estate agent.

The rain, which had seemed set for the day, began to ease as they crossed the Seine via the Pont Notre Dame; umbrellas were still up, the
gendarmes
standing guard outside the Préfecture de Police sheltered inside their plastic sentry boxes, but by the time they reached the fringes of the fourteenth
arrondissement
it had stopped altogether.

Dividing his time between negotiating the traffic
in the Place Denfert-Rochereau and studying a pocket street guide spread out across his steering wheel, the driver paused for a moment to exchange unpleasantries with the driver of an articulated
camion
, then he pointed up at the sky. A tiny shaft of sunshine had broken through a gap in the clouds.

The whole episode having clearly put him in a better mood he slowed down to a more leisurely pace, made a right turn, then a left followed by another right, and moments later pulled up alongside a row of anonymous buildings, mostly shuttered to the outside world.

‘Is this it?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked in vain for the familiar black on yellow insignia of a Renault agency. All he saw was a yellow Twingo parked on the pavement outside a nondescript building which could have housed practically anything.

‘It is the address you gave me,
Monsieur
.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse read the inscription on the card as the driver handed it back to him. He hadn’t given it more than a passing glance before, now he wished he had. Years in the Paris
Sûreté
had taught him to be wary of anyone calling themselves an Import-Export agency. In his experience the words were suspect in any language.

Paying off the taxi he collected his baggage and approached the Twingo. The door on the driver’s
side was locked. Ever curious, Pommes Frites joined him, rested his paws on the bonnet, then nearly jumped out of his skin as a metallic voice barked out: ‘STAND CLEAR. SYSTEM ARMED.’

The sound brought a man wearing a white coat hurrying out of a side door. He was carrying a clipboard.

‘Monsieur Pamplemousse?’

‘
Oui.
’

Pointedly examining the bonnet to make sure there were no scratches, the man took a key fob from his pocket, used a small attachment to trigger off a second announcement: ‘SYSTEM DISARMED’, then pointed a key in the direction of the inside rear-view mirror. There was an immediate click from both doors.

‘I normally drive a Citroën 2CV,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘One of the earlier models.’

‘Ah!’ said the man, as though that said it all.

Handing over the keys, he detached an A5 manila envelope from the clipboard. Beneath it there was a delivery note ready for signing, and with that simple formality completed he bid them both
bonne journée,
turned on his heels and left them to it.

It was all a bit disappointing. Gone were the days when you received the equivalent of a cockpit check before you were allowed anywhere near the driving seat of a new car, let alone touch the controls.

The engine started at the first turn of the key. As he eased the car off the pavement and onto the road Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what the man normally dealt in. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t cars. He couldn’t help wondering what was so special about buying a Twingo in Paris when they must be readily available at dealers all over France.

Not wishing to be seen opening his instructions, he drove off straight away, adjusting the electric wing mirrors and familiarising himself with the ergonomics of the dashboard as he went. It was simplicity itself. A digital display in the central console showed his speed in figures large enough for the driver in the car behind him to read. All the other information he might need: time, total and trip mileage, was his at the touch of a button on the end of the windscreen and rearscreen wash/wipe stalk.

He turned a knob in front of him and warm air filtered into the compartment. The ventilation fan control to its right increased the flow. Such niceties normally took a good fifteen minutes to bring about in his
deux chevaux
.

Retracing the route the taxi driver had taken, Monsieur Pamplemousse circumnavigated the Place Denfert-Rochereau, then headed towards the
périphérique
. Firmly ensconced alongside him Pommes Frites occupied himself by eyeing the
passers-by with a lordly air, only transferring his attention to the occupants of other cars when they joined the A6 autoroute.

His new-found sense of pride and importance lasted until they were some forty kilometres or so outside Paris and his master stopped to take a ticket from a machine at the Péage de Fleury. At that point he decided he might try the back seat for a change. He sensed a long drive ahead.

All the same, had Pommes Frites been employed as the canine motoring correspondent of one of the better daily
journaux
, he would have awarded his master’s new car full marks in practically every respect. Apart from the initial shock when it had spoken to him in what he considered was an unnecessarily harsh, not to say unfriendly voice, it was comfortable, draught-free and undeniably quiet. It was also surprisingly roomy. If he had a complaint it had to do with there being no canvas top; a fact which he had discovered soon after they reached the autoroute and he tried to poke his head out through the roof in order to get a bit of fresh air. But then, you couldn’t have everything.

As the barrier went up and Monsieur Pamplemousse set off in earnest he tried out the radio. The morning’s weather forecast had not been good. Snow was falling in the mountains of central France. Glancing up he saw the information panel
on the overheard gantry showed 09.17 and confirmed the falling temperature. At least when those two staples, time and weather, were shown it meant there were no hazards in the immediate vicinity.

Searching for a news bulletin so that he could bring himself up to date, he came across a station playing a Joe Pass record – an old Django Reinhardt number – ‘Douce Ambience’. The hi-fi stereo with its four different sound sources made his own radio with a single loudspeaker below the dashboard sound tinny.

Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt better as the combination of guitar, bass and drums set his fingers and his left foot tapping. It seemed a fitting accompaniment to the journey; underscoring the return to his childhood so to speak. He’d grown up with the music of the Quintet of the Hot Club of France, and the music you grew up with stayed with you for the rest of your life, dating you as surely as any birth certificate. It was a sadness that he’d never had the chance to share his pleasure with Doucette. In 1953, at the ridiculously early age of forty-three, Reinhardt had died of a stroke. They had missed seeing Joe Pass when he was playing in Paris, and now he, too, had departed this world. You should always seize hold of opportunities when they came your way. Which, of course, was exactly what he was doing driving south on the A6.

Helping himself to a sweet from a small bag in the side pocket of the door (it was the same colour as the paintwork, yellow, another thoughtful touch of Twingo chicness) he moved the envelope lying on top of the dashboard to avoid its reflection on the windscreen.

What Doucette didn’t understand was that the Director enjoyed playing his cards close to his chest. That was the way he was and he would never change.

What was the other thing he’d said on the phone? ‘Everything will be down in writing. Make sure you study it carefully before committing it to memory and destroying it.’ His voice had sounded slightly muffled, as though he’d had his hand over the mouthpiece. Since he’d been phoning from home, it must mean it was something he didn’t want his wife, Chantal, to know about.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave it another twenty minutes or so and then couldn’t contain himself any longer.

Exiting the autoroute at the Aire de Villiers, he parked under some trees near the children’s play area, and reached for the envelope. Aside from two small children looking for all the world like miniature space-persons in their moon boots and padded anoraks, the place was empty. Pommes Frites eyed them through the window and decided
against joining in; the weather was clouding over again and he’d only just dried out.

Slitting open the carefully sealed envelope, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed a grey wallet containing all the usual paraphernalia; handbook, service manual, a 227-page list of agents worldwide (not surprisingly, the address where he’d taken delivery of the car didn’t get a mention), details of the Philips RC388 Car System (radio was obviously a dirty word) and a leaflet congratulating him on purchasing a fine security alarm system. They could say that again.

Tucked away inside a pocket was a smaller sealed manila envelope bearing his name. Slitting it open, he found a sheet of plain, unheaded white typing paper inside.

‘Dear Aristide,’ he read. ‘Please treat this car as you would your own. Make sure Pommes Frites wipes his paws thoroughly before entering.’

‘Now he tells me!’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He’ll be wanting me to gift wrap it next.’

He read on and as he did so any thoughts he might have had about taking a leisurely stroll around the rest area before he began the journey proper, perhaps viewing the bronze statues dotted about amongst the Mediterranean Pines, or lingering over the displays of soil from the Forest of Fontainbleau, disappeared from his mind.

The Director’s note wasn’t at all what he had expected. He read through it again, committed the whole thing to memory as instructed, then tore the note into small pieces and deposited the remains in a nearby rubbish bin before setting off.

Glancing up at the rear-view mirror, Monsieur Pamplemousse made sure Pommes Frites was safely settled, then put his foot down and accelerated out into the slow lane between two large southbound
camions.
Out of respect for someone else’s new car he stayed where he was for a while before pulling out into the middle lane where he settled down to a steady 90kph. He had no wish to spend the journey stuck between lorries in the slow lane; on the other hand, neither did he want to be caught in the fast lane doing less than the statutory 80kph minimum. He checked the time with his Cupillard Rième wristwatch. All being well, he should be in Roanne just after 14.00 as instructed.