Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web Read online

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web

  MICHAEL BOND

  ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

  When first we practise to deceive’

  SIR WALTER SCOTT

  1771–1832

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  About the Author

  By Michael Bond

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  It all began with a telephone call from the Director of Le Guide, France’s premier gastronomic bible, summoning him to its headquarters in the 7th arrondissement of Paris, ASAP. It wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened, and doubtless it wouldn’t be the last.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at his watch. It showed a few minutes after 07.30. The only thing he could say for sure about the call was that it was much earlier than usual. It would happen when he was looking forward to a leisurely breakfast.

  There were those who would have said that the shameless way in which the Director took advantage of his subordinate’s experience of life in the raw during his years with the Paris Sûreté was beyond belief. Foremost was his wife, Doucette.

  ‘I wonder what the old so-and-so wants this time?’ she said. ‘You haven’t been back home after your last assignment for five minutes, let alone had time to readjust.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t rise to the bait. Far from viewing it as being the downside of his work, he secretly welcomed such diversions.

  Being a food inspector might sound glamorous to those outside the profession – ‘I should be so lucky’ summed up most people’s view of his work – ‘A job made in heaven’ was the opinion of those of a more romantic disposition.

  And so it could be at times, but there were exceptions, and the month he had just completed in the Aude mountains was a typical case in point. It had rained practically every day, and on two occasions he had genuinely feared for his life when he’d encountered a flash flood.

  That apart, there were moments when having to report in minute detail on every morsel of food he had eaten while it was still fresh in his mind, coupled with weeks on the road far from home, could be tedious in the extreme. From that point of view, he didn’t know what he would do without Pommes Frites for company.

  But there again, the grass was always greener on the other side of the fence. The occasions when he was called on to rescue Monsieur Leclercq from yet another predicament were like manna from heaven; a case of having the best of both worlds.

  Helping himself to a second croissant, he carefully broke it in two and reached for the butter dish. ‘There is no great hurry,’ he said. ‘It’s a thirty-kilometre drive from his home outside Paris, and if he goes at his normal pace it will probably take him a good hour.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Doucette. ‘If you ask me he was phoning from his car. I could hear other traffic in the background. It sounded as though someone was hooting at him. Besides, the message was very short and sharp. He didn’t even wait for an answer.’

  ‘No mention of the dreaded word?’

  ‘Estragon?’ Doucette shook her head. ‘No, thank goodness.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse wiped his mouth clean with a napkin and rose from the table. That put a different complexion on the matter.

  Estragon was Le Guide’s code word for use in an emergency: a major breakdown in their Poulanc DB23 mainframe computer, perhaps. Or, worse still, someone attempting to break into it just when they were in the final stages of preparing the latest edition which, following tradition, was due to be published on the third Tuesday in March.

  Monsieur Leclercq often became twitchy as the day drew near, but the fact that he hadn’t made use of the vital code word suggested it must be something personal.

  ‘I had better go, Couscous,’ he said. ‘It could be serious, and I doubt if anyone else is in the office yet.’

  Pausing only to kiss Doucette goodbye, Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped on his jacket and a few minutes later, with Pommes Frites at his side, he set off as fast as he could in his deux chevaux. Clearly, there was no time to be lost.

  The Director had made no mention of his friend and mentor’s presence being required. Nevertheless, he automatically took him along in case he might be of assistance.

  For once Place Clichy was free of traffic jams. Cutting down the rue de Saint-Pétersbourg towards St Augustin, he weaved his way in and out of the incoming commuter traffic which more than once threatened to block their way in the maze of one-way streets between St Augustin and the Champs Élysées. Heading south, they eventually crossed the Seine in record time via the Pont des Invalides.

  Pommes Frites, who had been playing his part as ever, shifting his weight to and fro in the front passenger seat in order to prevent their toppling over on sharp bends, heaved a sigh of relief. Having been deprived of his usual early morning walk, the call of nature was beckoning him in no uncertain terms, but mixed in with it was admiration at his master’s prowess in parking the car in the tiniest of gaps without the slightest jolt before he turned off the engine.

  Not that there was anything surprising in that. Monsieur Pamplemousse took pride in his parking. Pommes Frites had often heard him talking to his colleagues on the subject. It had to do with the designers of the car making sure there was a wheel at all four corners. It was his proud boast he could turn a 2CV round on an old two-franc piece.

  It didn’t seem to apply to dogs. Pommes Frites had a leg at all four corners, but he often had trouble fitting himself onto a rug, let alone an old coin.

  They covered the last hundred or so metres to Le Guide’s headquarters in the rue Fabert on foot.

  Seeing the large old oak double doors outside the main entrance were still firmly closed, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached inside an inner pocket of his jacket for a plastic card embossed with Le Guide’s motif: two escargots rampant. Holding it against a brass plate let into the stone wall to their right, he waited patiently while a small door let into the nearest main one slowly opened to afford entry.

  There was no sign of life in the hut just inside the main entrance. Old Rambaud, the gatekeeper, couldn’t have arrived yet. Nor was the Director’s Citroën DS5 in its usual place outside the private entrance to his suite on the seventh floor.

  Pausing by the artificial pool, which was the central feature of a vast courtyard, he waited a moment or two while Pommes Frites, having first slaked his thirst, balanced himself on three legs in order to focus his attention on other urgent matters brought on by the journey. Normally it would have been made ten times worse by the close proximity of a fountain, but for once the pool lay empty and the fountain was silent.

  Deprived momentarily of one of life’s illicit pleasures he changed his mind and on second thoughts, disappeared into some shrubbery outside the main entrance to the building.

  A few moments later, following on behind, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced over his shoulder as he mounted the steps. It was a good thing Rambaud hadn’t been around. He was grumpy enough at the best of times. A man of few words, most of which didn’t bear repeating, he would have exhausted his vocabulary had he witnessed Pommes Frites’ behaviour.

  The long reception desk was also unmanned, but the very fact of their gaining admittance at all suggested the night porter must be doing his rounds. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a bell ringing.

&nb
sp; Signalling Pommes Frites to follow him, he led the way across the hall towards a bank of self-operated lifts.

  Entering one that was standing idle, its doors open at the ready, he noted the floor indicator above the one next to it registered seven. Either the Director’s secretary, Véronique, had come in early as well, or the Director had beaten them both to it. If that were the case he must have parked somewhere outside, probably in the vast underground car park beneath the Esplanade des Invalides. Doubtless one of its employees was counting his good fortune having pocketed a handsome tip for keeping an eye on it.

  He didn’t have long to wait for an answer. As they reached the seventh floor and the lift doors slid open, a familiar voice rang out. ‘At last, Pamplemousse,’ called Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I was beginning to wonder what was keeping you.

  ‘You are forgetting something,’ he added as they approached his office via an open door outside Véronique’s office on the far side of the corridor.

  ‘I am?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. He signalled Pommes to halt and began feeling in his pockets.

  ‘I am referring to today’s password,’ said the Director testily. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse reached down to a trouser leg. ‘I have a mole on my left knee,’ he said. ‘It is listed on my P47 form of personal details.’

  Monsieur Leclercq affected a shudder. ‘I have no wish to see your left knee, Pamplemousse,’ he boomed. ‘I haven’t fully digested my breakfast as yet.’

  ‘I could hardly be anybody else,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We came as quickly as we could and I didn’t have time to check today’s code word via the security line.’

  ‘That isn’t good enough, Pamplemousse,’ reproved Monsieur Leclercq. ‘We happen to be on Red Alert. It seems we may have an intruder in the building. Some hidden sensors in the shrubbery outside the main entrance detected a heavy object. That is why the alarm bells are ringing.

  ‘I will let it pass on this occasion, Aristide, but please be more careful in future.’ Waving one hand vaguely in the air to indicate they should make their own seating arrangements, the Director collapsed – there was no other word for it – collapsed with an impressive hiss of escaping air into the armchair behind his desk.

  Reflecting that security in Le Guide’s headquarters during the run-up to publication day must make that at Fort Knox resemble Galeries Lafayette when their mid-summer sales were in full swing, Monsieur Pamplemousse selected a chair nearest to him and placed it in front of the Director’s desk.

  ‘How were things in the Aude?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq, while his subordinate made himself comfortable. ‘Bracing as ever, I imagine.’

  ‘Wet,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. At least the Director knew where he had been the past few weeks. ‘There is no other word for it. It rained nearly every day. They hardly had need for the Canal du Midi connecting the Mediterranean with the Atlantic Ocean.’

  His response was of no great moment, for Monsieur Leclercq immediately launched into what was clearly foremost in his mind. ‘Aristide,’ he said. ‘I am in urgent need of your help.’

  Had Pommes Frites been born with a sense of humour, he would have been laughing his head off by now. But there were other, more serious matters on his mind.

  Normally, when they were summoned to what was known by others in the building as the ‘Holiest of Holies’, something tasty would be laid out on a mat to keep him occupied. Nothing too grand, of course. Monsieur Leclercq disliked the sound of bones being chewed, so a choice titbit of something soft and easily disposed of was usually the order of the day – a slice or two of pâté de campagne cut into small squares was one of his favourites – but for once there was nothing. Absolutely nothing!

  In fact … Pommes Frites raised his head and sniffed pointedly … it was worse than nothing.

  His nostrils detected an elusive, but nonetheless inescapable smell of something vaguely familiar in the air. Taste buds began to salivate as he racked his brains trying to think what it could possibly be.

  Given that it was hard to tell exactly where the scent was coming from, he gave up the struggle for the time being, and having turned round and round in a circle several times, settled himself down at his master’s feet, luxuriating in the rays of an unusually spring-like February sunshine entering the Director’s office via a vast picture window which ran the entire length of the mansard floor on the east side of the building.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse, on the other hand, felt sorely tempted to say ‘Not for the first time, Monsieur.’

  However, rather than sully the atmosphere before he knew the true reason for their visit, he resisted the notion and simply inclined his head to acknowledge what was undoubtedly a rare compliment. It showed that deep down Monsieur Leclercq didn’t take their presence entirely for granted.

  As the seconds ticked away, it struck him rather forcibly they needn’t have hurried. The Director must have more than one matter on his mind for despite his apparent urgency in calling the meeting, he seemed to be playing for time; metaphorically sharpening pencils as a means of putting off the evil moment.

  Doubtless he was making some last-minute adjustments to his mental agenda as he began sorting various items into some kind of order, rearranging what was already an immaculately tidy desk, much as Véronique must have left it the previous evening.

  Eventually, having reached a decision and suddenly aware of the others’ discomfort as they sat blinking in the sun’s rays, he pressed a button beneath his desk and waited a moment or two while an awning slid silently into place, diffusing the light as it went.

  ‘You may be wondering why I called you in at such short notice, Aristide,’ he said, at last.

  ‘We came as soon as we could, Monsieur,’ replied Monsieur Pamplemousse non-committally. ‘Pommes Frites hasn’t even had his morning constitutional as yet,’ he added pointedly.

  That, too, was like water off the proverbial duck’s back. The Director brushed the news aside as though it were of no account. ‘We all have to take the rough with the smooth, Pamplemousse,’ he said brusquely. ‘It is hardly the end of the world.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse refrained from saying, ‘Try telling that to a dog dying to go out first thing in the morning.’

  The very thought of Monsieur Leclercq taking Pommes Frites for an early morning walk struck him as being a bizarre flight of fancy. For a start he couldn’t picture him setting out in the Paris streets armed with a plastic bag. Nor could he visualise Madame Leclercq being first in the queue to accompany him. And if she did, her bag would undoubtedly bear the colophon of some well-known couturier in the avenue Montaigne in case they met someone she knew.

  The Director suddenly reached a decision. Leaning across the desk, he handed Monsieur Pamplemousse a single sheet of A4 paper. ‘Read that, Aristide … It is a courrier électronique from a member of the Club des Cent.’

  Masking his irritation at the Director’s insistence on using the long-winded French term for what was after all a common or garden email, Monsieur Pamplemousse suppressed an inward whistle.

  Of all the clubs in the world, the Club des Cent had to be one of the most exclusive and no doubt warranted the distinction. Its strictly male membership was drawn from the cream of French hierarchy in the realms of politics, business, and the law. They met from time to time, not merely to discuss the problems of their various callings, the state of the world in general and France in particular, but not to put too fine a point on it, with the aim of enjoying a good meal together, followed by a long discussion as to its pros and cons compared with those they had partaken of on previous occasions. Wine and liqueurs would figure largely in the ensuing debate, and the net result was a veritable guide to all that was best in French cuisine. The contents of the email were brief and to the point. It seemed that a distant relative of the writer … a cousin from the United States … was recently in Paris for a business meeting and during the course of a necessarily brie
f visit, on the recommendation of one of the club’s members, he had dined at an off-the-beaten-track restaurant in the 3rd arrondissement. Unfortunately, not speaking French, he went to the wrong address where, purely on the basis of having been shown an example of what had to be the most luscious steak he had ever seen in his life, a glistening filet de bœuf fully two inches thick and beautifully marbled, he ordered it there and then.

  ‘Rare,’ had been his instructions to the waitress. ‘Tell the chef to simply show it to the grill – no more.’

  Having been kept waiting a good twenty minutes, during which time he had been plied with drinks, which not only added considerably to his bill, but dulled his taste buds into the bargain, the steak of his dreams had transmogrified into a mangy piece of brisket from an unidentifiable animal. A camel perhaps, or a buffalo that had died of old age, and not before time.

  It was a sorry tale, and to make matters worse, as the man stalked out of the restaurant in high dudgeon, he caught sight of his waitress armed with what was obviously the same steak, homing in on some new arrivals before they had time even to sit down. For a brief moment he had felt tempted to go back inside and warn them it probably spent its life attached to the plate by means of a strip of Velcro or some such fiendish device in case anyone took it into their head to give it a tentative poke with a fork before it was returned to the kitchen. But having caught what he took to be the helmsman’s menacing eye, he thought better of it.

  ‘Such happenings,’ said the writer, ‘are not only an embarrassment to one of our members, but they cause irreparable harm to our country in the eyes of visitors from other parts of the world. I realise you are not a member of our club, Monsieur, but please, please do something about the matter before it is too late …’

  ‘One reason why I am not a member,’ explained Monsieur Leclercq, hastily retrieving the email, ‘and what makes the Club des Cent so exclusive, is that membership is strictly confined to one hundred names. Only when a member dies can a new one be taken on board. The thing is, what can we do about it?’