Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot (18 page)

‘A wrong does not easily become a right,
Monsieur.
Two, still less. There were many wrongs to follow. Nine at the last count.'

The Director shrugged. ‘The second time was that much easier, the third probably a matter of little moment. By then it would have become a game; a matter of mechanics. The Department of Dirty Tricks were called in to help, and to them it was an exercise, a chance to flex their muscles and to pit their wits against others – it didn't really matter who – they do not have their title for nothing. The school was taken over; the original ski instructors replaced by their own men; the
Grosse
Légume
made a patron. His visits to both Les Cinq Parfaits and the Institut des Beaux Arbres became annual events; a chance to restock his larder, so to speak. He has, as you probably gathered, a very sweet tooth; plus a taste for blondes, preferably young and Anglo-Saxon. He likes their fresh complexions and they are more docile than some of the Latin races. At the Institut he was guaranteed an inexhaustible supply.'

‘Why did he not go to Britain in that case?'

‘Have you ever tried to smuggle a schoolgirl through the British Customs, Pamplemousse? They are not noted for their sympathetic approach to such matters. Besides, it is a small island. They lack certain of our advantages; space, mountains, borders … It was very much simpler to get them over here first, and the very fact of their being away from home had many other advantages.'

Monsieur Pamplemousse sat in silence for a moment or two. Reaching down with his hand he sought solace in the warmth and comfort of Pommes Frites' left ear. He suddenly felt very tired and dispirited and for no particular reason he thought again of Albert Parfait. That made him even sadder.

‘And the radiators of France,
Monsieur
?
What of them?'

The Director eyed Monsieur Pamplemousse uneasily. He sensed from his tone of voice the need to tread a delicate line. ‘That is not for me to comment on, Aristide. No doubt the Minister responsible will have more to say
on the subject when he sees
you. It is, in any case, a rapidly changing situation. I am told that by 1990, seventy per cent of all our energy will come from nuclear sources. We are rich in hydro-electric power. Beneath the Pyrénées near Pau lies the largest deposit of natural gas on the continent of Europe waiting to be tapped. Solar energy is already being harnessed and fed into our National Grid. Each year there is less and less need to pander to the
grosses
légumes
of this world.'

‘And in the meantime,
Monsieur
?'

‘In the meantime, Pamplemousse, we must hope for mild winters. What has happened is over and done with. Life doesn't stand still. Tomorrow's problems are already waiting in the wings. The
Grosse
Légume
will have to do his “shopping” elsewhere in future. In France he is
persona
non
grata.
Such a situation will not be allowed to occur again.'

‘And what about his past shopping?'

‘Moves are being made; pressures exerted behind the scenes. The government will not be idle.'

‘And what will happen to the Institut des Beaux Arbres?'

‘Questions, Pamplemousse, questions. I think you will find that as from today the Institut is “under new management”. The “ski instructors” will be replaced by the genuine article. Its pupils will remain untarnished – at least until they go out into the world.'

The Director waved aside the problems. They were for others to solve. ‘You still haven't answered
my
question. What led you there in the first place?'

Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter carefully before replying. Luck, he supposed. Luck, and a certain amount of tedious spadework. Attention to detail. He would like to have added a touch of Holmesian deduction, but it had been more a matter of being in the right place at the right time, as was so often the case. Plus, of course, Pommes Frites' temporary indisposition.

The Director glanced down at the huge bulk beside Monsieur Pamplemousse's chair. ‘I trust he is fully recovered?'

‘
Absolument,
Monsieur.
' Pommes Frites' breakfast that
morning had been of gargantuan proportions. He'd had a lot of catching up to do. ‘Had I not gone in search of him I would not have encountered the
doudounes
.'

‘Ah, yes, the
doudounes
.' The Director perked up. ‘I must say your red herring about looking for an illiterate female compositor with large
doudounes
was a masterly stroke, Pamplemousse. It had us all fooled. As a means of diverting attention away from your own activities it worked like a dream. Here at Headquarters, people were running around in ever-decreasing circles. Lists were compiled; descriptions circulated. The print unions were consulted; Interpol alerted. A photokit picture was painstakingly constructed, built up from the brief details at our disposal.' He reached down and opened one of his desk drawers. ‘What do you think of this, Aristide?'

Monsieur Pamplemousse took a 20 x 25cm print from the Director and held it up to the light. The face looking back at him bore little resemblance to Fraülein Brünnhilde. She would not be at all pleased if she saw it. As for the rest – someone had had a field day.

‘I would not like to meet such a person on a dark night,
Monsieur
,' he said.

The Director held out his hand. ‘Blown up out of all proportion, eh, Pamplemousse?' Pleased with his own joke, he replaced the photograph in his desk drawer.

For a moment Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to say more, but only for a moment. A promise was a promise. That apart, he had a feeling it would provoke snide references to past cases; the
affaire
at La Langoustine involving Madame Sophie and the
gonflables
in particular. He could almost hear the Director's comments. ‘There are those who would say you are developing a distressing penchant for inflatables, Pamplemousse. Were you by any chance frightened by some balloons when you were small?'

Outside, a clock began to chime. They both looked at their watches automatically. It was mid-day.

‘There is a lot to digest, Aristide.' The Director reached for his telephone. ‘I hope you don't mind, but I have asked Madame Grante to join us for a pre
-déjeuner
apéritif.'

Monsieur Pamplemousse's heart sank. ‘Is that strictly necessary,
Monsieur
? I can explain the second dent in the other wing. As for the picnic, I agree it was somewhat elaborate, but there were good reasons …'

‘The
second
dent, Pamplemousse?' The Director put his hand over the receiver. ‘It must have been a very wide road sign.'

‘I had another encounter,
Monsieur.
With a tree. Were he able to talk, Pommes Frites would bear witness that I was not to blame.'

‘Ah!' It was hard to tell from the tone of the Director's voice whether he was registering understanding or resignation. A pained look came over his face. ‘No, no, Madame Grante. It is not necessary to bring the appropriate forms with you. It can all be gone into later. This is a purely social occasion.

‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,' he said with a sigh as he replaced the receiver. ‘She is not a bad woman and she has a difficult job to do. I sometimes feel, Aristide, that she labours under the impression that while she is slaving away at her desk all day others like yourself are living a sybaritic life out in the field.'

‘A gross misapprehension,
Monsieur
.'

The Director rose to his feet and crossed the room to a cupboard at the far end immediately below the portrait of
Le
Guide
's
founder, Hippolyte Duval. ‘I know that, Pamplemousse. You know it. But given the size of your present claims, claims that I am sure can be fully justified in the fullness of time, I feel a little P.R. would not come amiss.' Opening the door of a concealed refrigerator he withdrew a bottle.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at it in awe. Even from the other side of the room the contents were immediately recognisable.

‘Taste-buds on the alert as ever, Aristide!' The Director looked pleased. ‘I have not forgotten my promise. It is the Château d'Yquem '45.' Placing the bottle carefully on the cupboard top, he unfolded a white napkin and made ready a corkscrew and three tulip-shaped glasses. ‘It is a long time since I last tasted it.' Holding the glasses up to the
light in turn to make sure they were scrupulously clean, he felt the bottle again. ‘I hope it is not too cold.'

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of Madame Grante. In response to the Director's bidding she entered and gazed around the room, registering in one brief, all-embracing glance both its occupants and the array of drinking implements on the cupboard top. She bestowed on the former a thin-lipped, wintry smile. It was not, reflected Monsieur Pamplemousse, the kind of smile that would have raised the temperature of the wine had it been pointed in that direction; rather the reverse. Pommes Frites opened one eye and finding it greeted by a disapproving sniff, hurriedly closed it again.

‘Ah, Madame Grante! How good to see you.' The Director's attempt to inject a note of
bonhomie
into the proceedings was not entirely successful. Nervousness was apparent in his voice. ‘Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. I was just saying to Aristide that it is time we saw more of you.'

Madame Grante seated herself on a long, black leather couch near the door, straightening her skirt automatically as she did so. ‘I am always available,
Monsieur.
'

She watched while the Director removed the cork from the bottle and began pouring the wine. ‘Only a very small glass,
Monsieur.
Some of us do have to go back to work, you know.' The shaft, directed at Monsieur Pamplemousse, met with an unreceptive target. Turning back to the Director, she unbent a little. ‘Unlike you hardened drinkers, I have to take care. One glass and I am not always accountable.' It was a joke she clearly kept for festive occasions – probably at office birthday parties and Christmas, and although it went unremarked by the other occupants of the room, it did not go unnoticed.

The Director looked even more nervous as he approached her, holding one of the glasses delicately by its stem. His eyes, as they met those of Monsieur Pamplemousse, clearly gave the green light for the other to take charge should the occasion demand it. As with Madame Grante's arrow, it fell on stony ground.

The second glass of wine deposited on a table beside
Monsieur Pamplemousse's chair, the Director seated himself behind his desk again. He held his own glass up to the light and uttered a deep sigh of contentment.

‘Ah, such depth of colour, such bliss … it makes one feel good to be alive.'

‘It looks very expensive,' said Madame Grante disapprovingly.

‘My dear lady' – the Director sounded put out – ‘of course it is expensive. Such wine can never be cheap. Grapes, infected by the “noble rot”, are left on the vines to shrivel until they lose half their weight and are barely recognisable. Often they have to be painstakingly picked one by one; but the juice is lush and concentrated, rich in sugar and glycerine. Even then it is no easy matter. The wine is kept for three and a half years in cask, topped up twice a week … the result is overpowering – you can almost feel the weight.'

Seeing that Madame Grante remained unconvinced he swirled the contents round. ‘Look at it. Note the deep, rich amber-gold. It is a luscious wine. It is like drinking a mixture of honey and
crème
brûlée.
Would you say
crème
brûlée,
Aristide?'

‘It is an apt simile,
Monsieur
.'

‘As for the bouquet … that is something else again …'

Raising the glass to his nose, the Director held it there for a brief moment while he inhaled deeply. ‘
Sacré
bleu!
' The glass fell from his nerveless hand as he jumped to his feet. ‘
Mon
Dieu!
Nom
d'un
nom!
Have you smelt it, Pamplemousse?'

Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his own glass, but before he had time to put it to the test there was a choking sound from the direction of the door. Looking round, he was just in time to see Madame Grante, a handkerchief already to her mouth, disappear through the opening. The slam as the door swung shut was echoed seconds later by another.

Pommes Frites, wakened by the commotion, rose to his feet. He peered at the half-empty glass on the table, gave it a proprietorial sniff, then stared at his master in surprise.

Avoiding his gaze, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked the
Director straight in the eye. ‘Did you say you
bought
this wine,
Monsieur
?'

‘No, Pamplemousse, I did not say that. I made no mention of where it came from.' The Director sounded irritated. His voice was defensive. ‘It was, as a matter of fact, a gift from Les Cinq Parfaits. It arrived this morning and I am told it was their last bottle. It seemed only right that you should share it.' He picked up his glass again and eyed the contents dubiously. ‘What do you think can have happened to it? You have a nose for these things.'

‘I think it is a little over the top,
Monsieur.
'

‘A little over the top? It is
incroyable.
I have never smelt anything like it. It reminds me of that old
pissoir
near the Métro.'

‘An even apter simile,
Monsieur.
'
Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed to the cupboard and picked up the bottle. ‘Perhaps the journey has unsettled it.'

‘You think we should give it time?'

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked round the room. ‘I think,
Monsieur,
it is yet another bottle destined for the pot plant.'

The Director watched unhappily while Monsieur Pamplemousse performed the task. ‘This is becoming a habit, Pamplemousse.'