Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation (9 page)

‘I think not. The victim is now in a place of safe keeping. He has undergone an operation and is under intensive care. We are waiting for him to come round so that he can make a statement and when that happens I am confident it won’t be long before we have it all tied up.’

‘So early on?’

‘It was not difficult.’ The Inspector placed his glass on a nearby table and waved expansively at the outside world. ‘The
neige
has given us all the clues we need. A trail of footprints. Fortunately we managed to get photographic evidence before it started coming down again.

‘I have never seen anything quite so amateurish. They left their signature everywhere they went. The trail begins at the main gate, leads up to where the crime was committed, then goes all the way back to the main gates again.’

‘And then?’

‘The footprints disappear in a maze of car tracks.’

‘There is no sign of them any further away?’

‘I have men looking.’

‘Local knowledge is very valuable,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but surely in a hotel with so many people around there must be many such trails.’

Lafarge allowed himself a smile of triumph. ‘That is where you are wrong. I already have a very clear picture of the culprits. Finding them shouldn’t be difficult.’ Clearly he couldn’t wait to tell Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘They do say size isn’t everything, but in this case it happens to be a crucial factor. Not only are the prints extremely small, they have a very distinctive pattern. I suspect some kind of rubber boots.’

‘What the English call a Wellington?’ hazarded Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Lafarge ignored the interruption. ‘I am looking for two midgets – identical twins most likely, for they appear to be inseparable. One of them had clearly been drinking, for he stopped to relieve himself at
the very first tree he encountered. In fact, he could hardly contain himself, for he stopped at a second, then a third. Samples of the surrounding snow have been sent to the laboratory in Lyon for analysis.

‘The man’s brother, who appears to be the leader, for he was always a few paces ahead, must have the patience of a saint. He always stood to one side and waited.’

‘Did he now?’

‘It is my theory he didn’t totally trust his companion. He never let him out of his sight for a moment.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed long and hard at the Inspector, wondering if he was being serious, then decided he was. It had been a narrow squeak. He had very nearly offered Pommes Frites’ services as well as his own. That would have meant a speedy end to their stay.

‘It wouldn’t be possible, would it, for the whole thing to have happened in reverse?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that perhaps the footprints started at the spot where the body was found, went down to the main entrance, then came back again.’

Inspector Lafarge stared at him. ‘If that were the case,’ he said huffily, ‘they would still be somewhere around. Mark my words, I know what I’m talking about.’

‘Sherlock Holmes would have been proud of you.’

‘
Comment?
’

‘He is an English detective,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘A fictional character. He was a past master in the art of building up a picture of a crime from just a few unrelated clues.’

‘Was he now?’ said Lafarge. ‘Well, I’m afraid I have to deal in facts, not fiction. None of your airy-fairy notions.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily changed the subject.

‘It is good that you have managed to keep the whole thing quiet so far,’ he said. ‘Such happenings will not do the reputation of the hotel much good.’

‘You can say that again,’ said Lafarge gloomily. ‘There’ll be a few people upset when the news does break. Mark my words.’

Something in his tone of voice made Monsieur Pamplemousse sit up. ‘Tell me, who is the victim?’

Lafarge gave him an odd look. ‘You mean … you do not know? It is Monsieur André Dulac of course. He went outside for a breather after the last of the service and ended up with a steak knife stuck in his ribcage. A
Trappeur
with a 9.5cm serrated-edge blade, for what it’s worth.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse knew them well. They used them at La Coupole in Paris. Very effective for their intended task, but hardly a murder weapon.

‘Were there any prints?’ he asked out of curiosity.

‘The handle had been licked clean,’ said Inspector Lafarge, ‘by an animal, or animals unknown. Nasty. Very nasty.’

Feeling more than ever glad that he hadn’t mentioned Pommes Frites, Monsieur Pamplemousse rose to his feet. He was tempted to say that he had to see a man about a dog, but that might have been stretching things a little too.

Bathed, shaved and suitably attired for the evening, Monsieur Pamplemousse viewed his reflection in one of the many bathroom mirrors before emerging to face the world. It was too bad he hadn’t had time to give much thought to his wardrobe before leaving Paris, but the black roll-top sweater under a lighter shade of bird’s eye patterned jacket looked reasonably smart; quite chic in his humble opinion, although Doucette would have pointed out that the jacket was creased in all the wrong places and still smelt strongly of what she had referred to as
eau
de Boulogne
.

At least the hotel valet service had turned up trumps with his shoes and trousers; the former as shiny as a new pin, the latter with knife-edge creases that for a change went all the way up instead of
stopping short where the top of his trouser press ended.

Sensing an evening of being left to his own devices, Pommes Frites was waiting by the patio door. He was wearing his hard-done-by look, implying that had he been consulted, which of course he hadn’t been, he might well have thought up other ways of passing the time instead of sitting in the back of a car, as he suspected might happen. Had life taken a different course, shop stewards might well have been called in to arbitrate; animal rights protesters would have stationed themselves outside the gates.

Having listened to his master’s assurances that he wouldn’t have long to wait before help arrived, he assumed his slightly pained ‘who am I to complain I’m only a dog?’ expression, before settling down to await further developments.

All of which struck Monsieur Pamplemousse, who could read Pommes Frites like a book, as being slightly unfair in the circumstances, particularly as he had left the radio on for him. There were times when the complications of human behaviour were hard to explain and
CHIENS
being
INTERDIT
was one of them. It didn’t happen very often, but when it did he was usually made to suffer.

He was about to go back inside when he paused for a moment and took a closer look at the door.

Someone had been at it. There were traces of
black powder around the handle. From a distance it could have been the result of someone using a puff of graphite to free a stiff lock, but … brushing the surface gently, he held his forefinger up to the light and looked at it … on closer examination it clearly wasn’t. Whoever was responsible would be in for a surprise if they tried doing the same thing to the car while Pommes Frites was inside it. The thought cheered him up.

Closing the door behind him, he picked up his notebook and slipped it into place ready to start work. Then, conscious that the bulge in his right trouser leg was rather more conspicuous than usual, he removed it. For once it would have to be a case of relying on memory rather than making notes. It was probably better not to be seen writing at table anyway. It was that time of the year when food guides were making their final inspections prior to publication and anyone dining alone was an immediate object of suspicion.

Almost the first person he met as he made his way down the long corridor towards the reception area was Inspector Lafarge. He looked as though he might have been lying in wait for him and his opening words confirmed it.

‘I was hoping I might bump into you.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had been about to say the same thing, but decided to let the other go first.

‘
Comment ça va?
Any news of
les minuscules
?’

‘You may laugh,’ growled Lafarge, ‘but I’ll tell you something about those two – they’re still around. I’d advise you to watch out because they’re getting a bit too close to home for comfort.’

‘
Comment
?’

‘We came across another set of footprints this morning. I’m not sure where they started from, somewhere out near the helicopter pad at a guess, but they led straight to your apartment and back again. We checked the door handle for prints, but all we found were a few smudges.’

‘Smudges?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Smudges,’ said Lafarge. ‘Forensic are still conducting their DNA tests, but I suspect the pair we are looking for will turn out to be itinerant tinkers down on their luck. One of them was probably an unemployed roof tiler. It is a well-known fact in this part of the world that men who work on roofs without wearing gloves wear away the skin on their fingers. It’s a common complaint in the trade.

‘Tell that to your Monsieur Sherlock Holmes,’ he said, barely able to keep the note of triumph from his voice. ‘Ask him what he would make of it.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter for a moment. He was sorely tempted to take the bull by the horns and suggest it might even be the result of someone touching a hot exhaust pipe, but
Lafarge looked so pleased with himself he had a feeling it wouldn’t be appreciated.

‘He may have thought they were midgets from a circus who specialise in doing a fire-eating act,’ he said at last. ‘The handle is unusually high off the ground, doubtless to put it out of the reach of small children. In the case of a pair of midgets one would have needed to stand on the other’s back.’

Inspector Lafarge gave him a funny look, as though unsure whether or not to take the idea on board.

‘Well, don’t say you haven’t been warned. If they’ve been out in the cold all this time they could be getting desperate.’

Bidding the Inspector
bonne soirée
, Monsieur Pamplemousse carried on towards the main reception area where he met the very person he was looking for.

‘The same as last night, wuff-wuff-wise?’ murmured Shinko as they exchanged greetings.

‘I don’t think it would meet with any complaints,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Although a little extra wouldn’t go amiss. He is not very happy at being left out of things …’

‘
D’accord
.’

‘You will find him in the car. It is unlocked. I put him in there for the time being in case the room maid came to make up the bed.’

‘She’s probably done it already,’ said Shinko. ‘As soon as anyone leaves their room, towels have to be renewed, beds laid out. It’ll take a little while to organise you-know-what anyway. Service is in full swing.’

‘His boots are in the car too if he needs to go for a walk. You’ll find them in the back seat.’

‘Brilliant! Leave it to me. I’ll let him back into the room as soon as the coast is clear.’

‘One other thing …’

Shinko looked at him enquiringly.

‘Would it be possible to have my car port security system activated?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. It struck him that if Lafarge and his men were poking about it might be useful to have any nocturnal visits on record.

‘Of course.
Pas de problème
, as they say. It may not be possible until the morning, but leave it with me.’ She looked as though she was about to say more, but then she made a face, gave what he’d come to think of as a characteristic wriggle and hurried back the way she had come.

Monsieur Pamplemousse followed her progress across the hallway, wondering what she was really like beneath the black uniform and the laid-back exterior. He shrugged. It took all sorts, and it was nice having friends in the right places.

Pommes Frites’ immediate needs taken care of, he 
turned his attention to the next important matter.

Looking round the restaurant as he entered he estimated it to be about three-quarters full. Not bad for a February evening in the wilds of the Auvergne.

Unlike some establishments in the remoter parts of France, Dulac stayed open all year round. But it was a chancy business. It was like the theatre. Unless you had at least eighty per cent attendance figures each and every time you opened your doors there was no quicker way of losing money.

In the brief moment while the
maître d’hôtel
came forward to greet him he took stock of his surroundings. The English couple he had seen looking in the
pâtisserie
the day he’d arrived were seated near the door. They must have begun their meal early, for they were already being served
fromage
from a vast chariot. On the far side of the room a waiter took a flash photograph of a table full of Japanese. There was a sprinkling of Germans and Italians. The rest looked as though they were either American or moneyed French; the latter probably in the wine trade.

It was like flipping through the pages of a fashion magazine; a showcase for Hermès scarves, Armani suits, Prada bags, Gucci shoes, Dior gowns, Paloma Picasso costume jewellery, and no doubt later in the evening Platinum Amex cards.

There were out-of-season cut flowers on every
table. Again, as in his room, exquisitely minimalist arrangements in the oriental manner.

Declining the table he was offered, which gave a view of the surrounding countryside, or as much of it as was visible now that night had fallen, he asked for one in the non-smoking area. If there was such a thing at Dulac as a table which was less desirable than the rest, it would most likely be one of the obligatory few reserved for non-smokers. The one he was shown to lived up to expectations, but it suited him well; at least he could remain reasonably anonymous while he watched the comings and goings of the waiters.

The view of the
cuisine
through a long, soundproof window had an almost surreal quality about it. It was like being present while a group of mime actors rehearsed a play without words, although every so often lips moved in response to orders barked out and received. Hands reached up to check order slips pinned above the stations; dishes passed to and fro; the occasional burst of flame cast a flickering glow over the scene as a pan was
flambéed
. There was an air of military discipline and precision about it all, as though if one member were to fall by the wayside another would immediately appear to take his place.

He could see the back of a discreetly placed television monitor adjacent to where Dulac’s
number two, the
chef de cuisine
, was standing, scrutinising dishes as they left his domain. Glancing up at the ceiling inside the dining area Monsieur Pamplemousse spotted a tiny video camera panning slowly round the room, presumably allowing the chef to make sure none of the guests were kept waiting.

He ordered a glass of the house champagne. An assistant sommelier, a girl, presented the bottle before pouring it. It was Ruinart non-vintage; dry and elegant.

Back in the kitchen area he caught sight of a familiar face. It took him a second or two before he realised it was the girl he had presented the prize to earlier in the day. She looked infinitely more demure in her white overalls, her hair becomingly encapsulated in a matching cap. Honoré hadn’t been joking when she said her ex-pupil was in catering. Lucky her. A lot of girls would give their eye teeth for such an apprenticeship. The church’s loss was
haute cuisine’
s gain.

Madame Dulac herself was nowhere to be seen. She was probably at her husband’s bedside, wherever that might be. The show would go on without either of them, at least for the time being.

He recalled Paul Bocuse’s classic response to the question: ‘Who cooks when you are away?’

‘The same people who cook when I am here!’

That was true up to a point. No
chef patron
of a great restaurant could possibly spend all his time slaving away over a hot stove day in day out. They had a million and one other things to occupy their time, not the least of which was training others in their own style of cuisine, emulating the dishes they had perfected over the years.

Nowadays, too, the world itself had shrunk. Star chefs had become jet-propelled, with invitations to judge a competition here, take charge of the cooking for some great banquet for heads of state there; the demands were never-ending. It needed a strong constitution to stand the pace. Why would anyone want to do it? He certainly wouldn’t.

And then again, the public were fickle. They expected to see the Star, if not at work, at least putting in an appearance; making the rounds, shaking hands, wishing the guests
bon appétit
, and all the time smiling as though they hadn’t a care in the world. It was the Star the people came to see. His absence was like having a small slip of paper fall out of a theatre programme saying the understudy was playing the leading role.

He wondered how long it would be before word got around. Lafarge was certainly doing his stuff in that respect.

There were two menus. One, the
Menu de Campagne
, was hand-written on deckled-edged parchment and
came in a soft leather binding. The other,
Cuisine de Ciel,
a fusion of Eastern and Western styles, freely translated as ‘A Marriage Made in Heaven’, was presented in a stark white folder. Both bore the ubiquitous letter ‘D’ on the front; the former in gold foil, the latter in blood red.

While he was studying the first, a plate of
amuse-gueules
was placed before him; tiny portions of
foie gras
in the shape of a duck, the wings fashioned out of finely sliced almonds to cut the richness. They were faultless. So far, so good. It boded well for things to come.

He wished now he
had
brought his notebook with him. It was like being without his Cupillard Rième wristwatch or his favourite Cross pen. His powers of concentration would be tested to the full trying to remember all the details.

He gazed at a photograph of Monsieur Dulac on the inside of the front cover. It was followed by a brief rundown of his career, a kind of CV. Like so many of his generation, François Bise, Bocuse, Chapel, Dulac had done a stint at the Restaurant de la Pyramide in Vienne, first as a commis, then as a
chef de partie
. After that had come a spell under Jacques Pic in Valence, followed by a year at the Grand Véfour in Paris.

From that great fountain of knowledge, Fernand Point, he would have learnt tolerance in a profession
not always noted for it, and the need to respect the basic ingredients of his craft, allowing them the freedom to speak for themselves. From Pic he would have learnt generosity. And at the Grand Véfour, under Raymond Oliver’s tutelage, he would have learnt to broaden his horizons as a
restaurateur
, enabling him to cater for the likes and dislikes, the fads and fancies, of customers from any walk of life who chose to beat a path to his door.