Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot (4 page)

‘Rest assured, Monsieur Parfait, neither Pommes Frites 
nor I will abuse your trust. As for trails, time alone will tell, but we will try and keep them to a minimum. I gather the local police have not yet been informed?’

‘Thankfully, no. We do not want their great boots tramping all over the hotel. It would be bad for the ambience. This way is much better. With luck, no one need ever know.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse forebore to say that without a large measure of good luck everyone would know. It would be in all the
journaux.

‘When did you last see your son?’

‘This morning at around eight o’clock. When I returned from the market in Thonon. He said he was planning to visit a supplier up in the mountains. There is a monastery where they make
Fruits
du
vieux
garçon
– the fruits of the confirmed bachelor. The name always appealed to Jean-Claude.’

‘He went by car? There have been no reports of an accident … a breakdown perhaps?’

‘He would have done – it is a long journey, but his car is still in the garage. He must have changed his mind.’

‘Then he can’t have gone far. Unless he went somewhere by train and got delayed. Where is the nearest station?’

‘Evian. I have enquired there. No one has seen him.’

‘Can you think of any reason why he would disappear? Anything that would take him away from home without telling anyone?’

Again there was a slight, barely perceptible hesitation. ‘What reason could there possibly be?’

He wasn’t answering the question, but Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to try another tack. ‘He lives on the premises?’

‘All my sons do. Alain, Edouard and Gilbert are married and they live in separate houses in the grounds. Jean-Claude and I both have apartments in the main building.’

‘And he had no worries?’

‘None that I know of. He is not one to talk about his problems anyway. Life for him is for living. He is always bouncing back for more.’

‘And it has never happened before?’

‘He has his work. He is a professional. He would not wish to let others down.’

‘May I see his apartment?’

‘If you think it will help.’

‘At this stage anything will help.’

‘I will have you shown there.’ Monsieur Parfait took a firm grasp of his stick and glanced at a clock on his desk. ‘If you will forgive me I will leave you to your own devices. In my profession one also has to be something of an actor. There is a performance to be put on every evening, not once, but several times over. The customers will be expecting me to make my rounds.’

‘I am told that later this week you have one of your more difficult audiences arriving,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Please do not remind me.’ Albert Parfait made a face. ‘It is not a task I relish. Already the advance guard are here. You may have seen their caravans beyond the wood. On Friday it will be the whole entourage. I cannot begin to describe the problems they bring with them. If I tell you that last year some members of the bodyguard were caught trying to roast a whole sheep in one of the chalets it will give you an inkling. Can you imagine – they stay at Les Cinq Parfaits and they want to do their own cooking!’

‘It is hard to picture.’ He wondered what sort of symbol they might concoct for
Le
Guide.
An upside-down lamb on a spit, perhaps – with a red cross superimposed to show that it was
inter
dit
? Michelin would be in their element.

‘Would it not be possible one year to be
complet
?’

Monsieur Parfait took an even tighter grasp of his stick and for a brief moment allowed his true feelings to surface. ‘It would be perfectly possible,’ he said bitterly. ‘It is also very tempting. But if you were to rephrase the question – if you were to ask me “would it be wise?”, then almost certainly the answer is no. There would be repercussions.
Entre
nous,
it would offend too many people. People who have long memories. There are, shall we say, wheels within wheels.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse pondered the remark before answering. It was the second time that evening the point had been made.

‘And they require oiling?’

‘There are many things in life which are helped on their way by a little lubrication,’ said Monsieur Parfait simply. ‘And there are some that would grind to a halt without it. Oil has many uses. It helps make the world go round and it soothes troubled waters. Our own waters would become turbulent indeed if I chose to be difficult. Once upon a time I might have done, but now, if I am honest, I am too old to be bothered. Besides, I have the future of my sons to consider.’

He reached for a bell-push. ‘Now, I must attend to work. I wish you – I wish all of us –
bonne
chance
.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse drained the glass and then picked up his book and rose to join Parfait at the door. ‘I will do my best. I cannot do more.’

‘If you require anything – anything at all, please let me know.’

The handshake accompanying the remark was as firm as it had been earlier. It was also perfectly dry. The
moment
critique
, if there’d been one, had passed.

There was a knock at the door.

‘
Entrez
.’ Monsieur Parfait issued his instructions briefly to one of the two coal-black Sudanese bell-boys who normally ministered to the needs of arriving guests, then relaxed his grip on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s hand. ‘
A bientôt
.’

‘
A tout à l’heure
.’

As he followed the boy down a long, deeply carpeted corridor lined on either side with bowls of freshly cut flowers and hung with discreetly inoffensive paintings, Monsieur Pamplemousse was conscious of a pair of eyes boring into the back of his head. Under the pretext of blowing his nose, he paused and half-turned. He was just in time to catch Albert Parfait disappearing into his office. Clearly he had other matters to attend to before he began his tour of the dining-room.

Was it his imagination or had there been something furtive about the way he moved? Furtiveness, along with some other element he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Alarm, perhaps? Guilt? He filed the episode away in the back of his mind for future reference.

Outside, as they made their way along a short path which led past the restaurant towards the residential area in an adjoining building, he was aware of other eyes watching his progress. He wondered which of the diners had set off the alarm. He had an uneasy feeling that someone other than the
patron
of Les Cinq Parfaits had been responsible for passing on the news that Jean-Claude had gone missing. It was almost as if Albert Parfait would rather the fact hadn’t been made known. Perhaps the turbulent waters he’d spoken of earlier contained undercurrents not yet revealed; care would have to be taken if he was to avoid getting caught up in them.

The air was heavy with the fragrance of late flowers; the beds on either side of the path were immaculately cared for. He could hear the soft swish, swish of a sprinkler somewhere close at hand. There was a louder splash from the direction of the pool. Someone must have decided to have an after-dinner swim. He hoped that whoever it was hadn’t eaten as well as he had. They might never surface again. Turning a corner, he found himself instinctively looking for Pommes Frites.

The bell-boy, trained to anticipate everyone’s wishes before they were even voiced, pointed towards a wooded area behind the hotel. ‘He may be over there,
Monsieur
. I saw him heading that way earlier this evening.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse grunted. If Pommes Frites had gone ‘wooding’ there was no knowing when he would be back. Woods held a fatal fascination for Pommes Frites; probably because he spent most of his off-duty hours in Montmartre, where the nearest thing to a wood was the vineyard in rue Saint Vincent.

‘He is a nice dog, that one.’ The bell-boy’s face suddenly split open from ear to ear in a wide smile. Pommes Frites had obviously not been idle; he had acquired a new friend. Pommes Frites was good at acquiring friends in the right places. No doubt he had also made his presence known to the kitchen staff and certain of the waiters as well. The boy’s next words confirmed his suspicions.

‘He also has a very good appetite.
Pouf! Sapristi!
’

‘He can hold his own.’

‘He should take care.’ The bell-boy pointed towards the woods again. ‘That is where the
bicots
are living. They do not like dogs. They are
fouillemerdes
.’ Clearly he
considered
himself a million light years removed from the occupants of a small group of caravans whose rooftops were just visible between a gap in the trees.

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at him with interest.
Fouillemerdes
was a word he’d only ever heard used to describe people who leafed through books on the stalls along the banks of the Seine in Paris; for this reason the wares were almost always covered in plastic. As they finally stopped by a door and the boy felt for his keys, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced uneasily towards the woods. Pommes Frites was well able to look after himself, but all the same he resolved to look for him again at the earliest opportunity.

‘They come here every year?’

‘Every year.’ The boy turned his key in the lock. ‘As soon as the holidays are over.’

‘The same people?’

‘They are all the same,
Monsieur
.’

‘How long do they stay?’

‘A few days. That is all. Long enough.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the reply. He seemed to have struck a no-go area. Long enough for what? he wondered. The smile on the boy’s face had disappeared and he seemed suddenly ill at ease.

Monsieur Pamplemousse decided not to press the matter further for the time being. Instead, he tried a shot in the dark. As he pushed open the door he felt inside his wallet and took out a note.

‘Thank you for your trouble. I shall be grateful if you would keep an eye on Pommes Frites for me. Make sure no harm comes to him.’

He hoped he hadn’t given too much. The boy had the natural dignity of the Sudanese, and he didn’t wish to cause offence.

But he needn’t have worried. He was rewarded by an even larger display of white teeth. ‘
Oui
, Monsieur
. It will be a pleasure.’

As the door clicked shut, Monsieur Pamplemousse set to work, quickly and professionally. It was quite like old times. He had no idea what he was looking for. He was simply obeying an instinct, fulfilling a need for some kind of action. It had to begin somewhere and he needed to create a picture in his mind of the person he was looking for.

There were three doors, one in each wall. He tried the one on his left. It opened on to a large cupboard. Inside there hung a row of coats and jackets. He looked at the labels; they were predictably expensive – Yves St. Laurent, Pierre Cardin. The shoes laid out neatly on a rack below were equally fashionable; mostly hand-made from Lobb of London. Albert Parfait was right – chefs did indeed enjoy a new status in society. A pair of Rossignol V.A.S. racing skis stood upright in one corner; some ice-skates hung alongside them.

The bathroom was neat and orderly. A Braun Micron de Luxe electric razor was laid out ready for use beside the washbasin. An electric toothbrush, also Braun, was clipped to the dark-blue tiles above it. Everything had its home. A large inset mirrored cabinet contained a selection of sprays and lotions.

The third door opened on to a large living-room, which in turn led into a bedroom. On one side there was a long picture-window. He drew the curtains carefully and then turned on the lights. An open hatch revealed the kitchen area.

The living-room itself was simple, even austere. It was the unlived-in room of a bachelor who spent most of his time either working or out doing other things.

He wondered what Holmes would have made of it. Probably from a few hastily crushed cigarette-ends in an ashtray and signs of pacing to and fro on the carpet, he would have built up a complete picture, astounding Watson and solving the mystery at one and the same time. However, there were no ashtrays and the beige carpet looked as fresh as the day it was first laid.

He drew a blank in the kitchen. It echoed the tidiness of the bathroom. There were more gadgets, a whole battery
of them, ready and waiting. Jean-Claude must be a gadget salesman’s dream. A Moulinex juicer stood in pieces on the draining-board, its inside stained orange from carrot juice. He wondered whether the owner suffered from bouts of indigestion like himself, or whether he simply like carrots. Probably the latter. The refrigerator was stocked up with bottles of Evian water. Living where he did he could hardly drink anything else.

He went back into the living-room. There was a notable absence of books apart from a row on a shelf above the desk, mostly to do with work and winter sports. The television was Sony; the video beneath it the latest Betamax. Fixed to the wall was a Bang & Olufsen Beosystem 3000; underneath that a rack of L.P.s. Somewhat to his surprise they were mostly big bands: Basie, Ellington, Buddy Rich, with a sprinkling of older groups – Lionel Hampton, Mugsie Spanier, Benny Goodman.

He found himself warming to Jean-Claude. They were on common ground at last. Perhaps one day they would be able to get together and exchange notes. Doucette didn’t approve of his taste in music and complained when he had it on too loud. He envied Jean-Claude his freedom to turn up the volume when he felt like it. Big bands needed a big band sound.

There was a disc by Ben Webster and Art Tatum already on the turntable. It was one he hadn’t come across before. The remote controller was on a table near the window. Unable to resist the temptation he pressed the switch. The sound of ‘All the Things You Are’ gave him an instant lift.

He skimmed through the bedroom, feeling under the mattress, briefly checking the cupboard drawers. There was nothing worthy of comment. It was all high-tech monastic. On a table beside the double-bed a matt-black Italian Stilnoro lamp illuminated a Nordmende
clock-radio
. The alarm was set for six o’clock. There was also a cordless telephone – the kind with the dialling buttons in the handset, and a small pile of magazines – mostly to do with food and drink. They looked untouched. There was also a catalogue from Sports-Schuster of Munich showing the latest in skiing equipment and clothing. Several items
were marked. Jean-Claude must have been making plans for the coming winter season. He didn’t look like a man with too many problems.