Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates Page 2

  ‘Have you enquired of the journal concerned, Monsieur?’

  ‘I have indeed. I spoke with the editor at length soon after the news broke. Apparently the entry was placed over the telephone late yesterday evening by someone purporting to be the proprietor. It was dealt with by a junior who has, I gather, already departed for pastures new.

  ‘Once today is over, Pamplemousse, I want you to take charge of the investigation. It needs someone with a finger on the pulse of the organisation, someone skilled in the art of keeping a discreet ear to the ground, whilst at the same time possessed of a nose for the scent of untoward behaviour. Your past training will be invaluable.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse absorbed this news with something less than enthusiasm. Apart from the dubious mechanics of the Director’s roll-call of his talents, which made the task ahead sound more suited to Pommes Frites, he had no wish to become embroiled in a situation which could well result in ill-feeling from the rest of the staff if they felt he was prying into their affairs.

  However, any protests he might have voiced were rendered stillborn as the Director departed in order to prepare himself for his annual speech.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse joined in the general throng making their way up to the boardroom on the fourth floor – some by lift, others, like himself, by the central staircase. In a matter of moments he was deep into shaking hands, greeting old friends and making new ones; Truffert asked to be reminded later to relate the story of an adventure he’d had on the Orient Express; Guilot, still persisting with his diet of fresh carrot juice before all meals, and clearly ignoring his weight problem for the day, was looking positively orange; Daladier had stumbled across a new restaurant near Strasbourg, which for the area he rated second only to that of the Haeberlin brothers; Trigaux in the art department – busily recording the event with his camera for L’Escargot, the staff magazine – had a new piece of photographic equipment he wanted to show Monsieur Pamplemousse when he had time.

  The catering department had excelled themselves. It was their one moment of glory in the year, a chance to demonstrate that their skills extended beyond Tuesday’s cassoulet and Friday’s inevitable ragoût. Pâtés vied with each other alongside an array of cold meats and salads; there was one table devoted entirely to fish and another to meat; tureens full of as yet undisclosed delights simmered away on a fourth. There was a display of cheese on a fifth followed by a tempting display of desserts for those who managed to stay the course.

  Champagne greeted them as they entered the room, while on other tables at the far end were gathered an assortment of bottles to delight both the eye and the palate. Without straining too much, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked out and mentally earmarked a Bâtard-Montrachet from Remoissenet and a Charmes-Chambertin bearing the illustrious name of Dujac. On another table there was an impressive collection of old Armagnacs and Cognacs.

  Given the fact that most of those present were in various degrees of mourning, ranging from a mere armband to total blackness (and those in the former category clearly regretted they hadn’t taken more trouble over their dress; the Director had an eye for such things), it looked more like a convention of undertakers getting together after an unusually successful year than a gathering of hungry gourmets anxious to do justice to what lay before them.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse wished now he’d been less optimistic about his chances of returning home early. He looked round, weighing up the possibility of slipping back outside in order to make a quick phone call to Doucette – he could tell her the good news about the Director at the same time – but the crush of people following on behind made it hardly worth contemplating.

  Glandier clinched matters by handing him a plate.

  ‘We shall suffer for this,’ he murmured. ‘But what suffering! I’m glad I’ve got a late pass back at the works.’

  Reminded of his responsibilities by a pressure against his right leg, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up another plate for Pommes Frites.

  As he moved slowly along the succession of tables, listening to the conversation and the laughter coming from all sides, it was hard to picture there being a Judas in the camp. If such a person existed, he – or she – would be very well fed. Well fed, and ungrateful to boot. The Director might have his faults, but no one could possibly complain of being badly treated. Goodness knows what the lunch must have cost. He wouldn’t like to have to foot the bill.

  The thought triggered off another. So far he hadn’t set eyes on Madame Grante. As Head of Accounts she was usually at the forefront of things, keeping an eagle eye on all that went on. Truffert had a theory she checked their portions and made it up afterwards when it came to going through their expense sheets. He glanced around, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  Feeling suddenly in need of a little peace and quiet, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way to the far end of the room and found himself a chair near the dais from which the Director would be making his speech later that afternoon. On the platform there was a lectern and a small table on which reposed a glass and an ominously large bottle of Badoit. To the rear there was another table bearing an object covered in a shroud from beneath which there emerged a cable connected to a wall socket.

  Gradually the hubbub died down as talk gave way to the serious business of eating. Waiters in fawn-coloured uniform embroidered with replicas of Le Guide’s symbol – two escargots rampant – moved discreetly to and fro amongst the crowd, charging and recharging glasses.

  If the Bâtard-Montrachet was grand and sumptuous, the Charmes-Chambertin was elegance personified; each was more than worthy of the occasion and both improved as the afternoon wore on. All in all, by the time the Director made his entrance, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt at peace with the world. His only regret was that he’d seated himself in a position from which there was patently no escape, right next to the dais. A quiet sleep was out of the question; a noisy one even more so. It was worse than being back at school. He wished now he’d stuck with Glandier.

  ‘I do not propose,’ began the Director, holding up one hand for silence, ‘to dwell on this morning’s events, nor do I intend to speculate on the possible motivation for what on the surface would seem to be an utterly senseless and irresponsible action.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse suppressed a groan. He knew the signs. When the Director said he wasn’t going to dwell on something it usually meant quite the opposite. They were in for a long peroration. He hoped Pommes Frites behaved. One year, when some unidentified person had laced his water bowl with vin rouge, he had disgraced himself by snoring loudly during a particularly long and boring passage.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse half-closed his eyes and placed one hand on his forehead in what he hoped would be interpreted as a look of deep concentration.

  It was a very strange business and no mistake. If it was a practical joke, then it was in dubious taste and must have caused more heartaches than laughter. Hoaxes were all very well in their way, but there were limits.

  Having relieved himself of his feelings on the subject of the morning’s events, the Director devoted the first part of his speech to the usual statistics relating to the past year’s activities. Out of over fifty thousand restaurants and hotels currently listed in the archives, less than ten thousand had found their way into Le Guide. That was not a denigration of those establishments who failed to gain entry, rather a pointer to Le Guide’s very high standards. Standards which, in a world where the very currency of the word was tending to become more and more debased, they must endeavour to maintain regardless of the cost. Reputations took years to build up; they could be destroyed overnight.

  Out of the nine thousand eight hundred and twenty-three restaurants mentioned, eighteen had been singled out for the supreme accolade of three Stock Pots, eighty-one would receive two Stock Pots – a change in an upward direction of three over the previous year – and five hundred and nineteen were being awarded one Stock Pot. Congratulatory telexes were being prepared.

  There were the usual
moments of light relief. Reference was made to how many kilometres of saucisses and saucissons had been consumed by Inspectors in the course of duty. There were statistics relating to car mileage, the amount of wine drunk, and a pointed reference to the percentage rise in claims for expenses.

  In proposing the usual vote of thanks to Madame Grante for her painstaking preparation of the figures, the Director raised a hollow laugh when he said that despite constant research a machine had yet to be perfected which would in any way replace her. Someone at the back of the room – it sounded like Truffert – triggered off a titter by shouting ‘Quel dommage!’ It was instantly quelled by a strong glare from the Director.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked round the room again, but there was still no sign of Madame Grante. Perhaps, despite the Director’s words, she had taken umbrage. People were very resistant to change when their own jobs were threatened, and he’d heard rumours to the effect that all was not well in her department.

  ‘We come now,’ continued the Director, ‘to the moment in the afternoon you have doubtless all been waiting for. I refer, of course, to the decision we made last year to enter the computer age.

  ‘It was a decision, I need hardly tell you, which was not arrived at without a great deal of heart searching. Le Guide has always prided itself on its efficiency and in being in the forefront of all the latest scientific and managerial developments. In the past our unique filing system has been the envy of many of our rivals. However, in recent years we have been falling behind. We can no longer afford to ignore either the march of progress or the benefits which the coming of the computer has conferred on those who have acquired one. Information is our working capital, and anything which enables us to draw on that capital and make use of it quickly and efficiently can only be for the good.

  ‘There are those who would say that we should have made the move much sooner. To them I would point out that part of our strength has always been those very same qualities which I believe make France the country it is: the will and the ability and the enthusiasm to embrace the new whilst still retaining the best of the old. We have merely taken time to make sure we are balancing the two often conflicting forces in order to achieve a harmonious whole.

  ‘There was a time when computers were surrounded in mystery. Only highly trained operators were allowed anywhere near them, and they became the “élite” – the “high priests” as it were, acquiring power previously reserved for the higher echelons. Then, as so often happens, things turned full circle. Now, with the coming of the microcomputer, power in many companies has been transferred yet again, but this time to anyone capable of operating a keyboard. Both situations have their drawbacks and their hazards. The one is like a ship with a member of the crew who usurps the captain’s position but is never seen; the other is like a ship where every member of the crew thinks he is capable of running it.

  ‘I wish to say here and now that Le Guide will have but one captain. I intend to remain firmly at the helm.’

  The Director took advantage of the sustained applause which greeted this last remark to help himself to a glass of Badoit.

  ‘It is our intention to combine the best of both worlds. We have installed a central computer large enough, and powerful enough, to see us into the next century. On one level it will take care of all the information necessary to produce Le Guide, and this information will be accessed by only a few, thus guarding our reputation for anonymity and total secrecy. On another level it will provide us with ample facilities for the many other uses we intend putting it to. Our public information service will be enhanced. Our accounting system will be updated. Our reference library will become second to none. The list of potential benefits is almost endless.

  ‘Concurrent with this technological leap, the first of the major changes I have to announce concerns Le Guide’s system of symbols; a system which, although it has amply withstood the test of time, is now in need of reassessment in order to take account of modern developments and changes in social behaviour. Over the past few years we have received many complaints, particularly from our older readers, about the problem of background music in restaurants. The most common argument advanced, and one which I have to admit strikes a chord of sympathy, is that if people feel like sharing their meal with a military band then they should take a picnic lunch in the Champs-Elysées on Bastille Day. Most people go to a restaurant in order to enjoy a meal in peace and quiet, not to have their ears assailed by discordant cacophonies from a battery of ill-concealed loudspeakers. Accordingly, we intend to institute a symbol of ear-plugs rampant for those establishments which come under the heading of “persistent offenders”.

  ‘There are to be other new symbols which you will learn about in due course – an unshaded luminaire for a low standard of ambience is but one example; others will be introduced in the fullness of time, but slowly, so as not to place too great a burden on you all.’

  Aware that the buzz of conversation following his pronouncement had not entirely subsided and that a good part of his audience had seized on the chance to relax, the Director raised his voice.

  ‘I come now to the major event of the afternoon. We have decided to institute a new award which I believe will be unique in the annals of catering. It will be in the form of a golden Stock Pot lid and will be presented annually to the best restaurant in France. The winner will then hold it for a year. There will, of course, be similar awards for the runners-up. A silver lid for the second and a bronze lid for the third.

  ‘A few moments ago I made reference to our system of awarding Stock Pots to those restaurants who merit it, restaurants where the cuisine, the surroundings and the service are all exceptional and justify a special journey, much as Michelin award their stars and Gault-Millau their toques. As you all know, other guides have different systems again, none of which are entirely without merit.

  ‘However, admirable though all these awards are, the one criticism one may level at them – our own included – is that in the final analysis they are still subjective and as such are open to human errors and human frailties; judgements can become clouded – over-indulgence by an Inspector the previous evening, indisposition of the chef on the day itself – the possibilities are endless.

  ‘In order to arrive at a fair, indeed one might almost call it an incontrovertible decision as to which is the very best restaurant in the whole of France, and therefore, almost by definition, the whole of the world, I have decided to take full advantage of our latest acquisition. All this week staff have been busy feeding the computer with every scrap of information obtained over the past year and even while I have been talking it has been sifting this material, digesting and dissecting it, annotating the result, weighing one factor not simply against another, but against many thousand of others. It is a task which I am told would take a hundred skilled mathematicians many months to complete. And yet,’ the Director turned and like a magician presenting his pièce de résistance, removed the shroud from the object behind him with a flourish, ‘such is the miracle of modern science, the answer will be printed out the moment I issue the appropriate command on the keyboard you see in front of you; a keyboard which is connected to the mainframe in our computer room in another part of the building. I, myself, do not as yet know the result – no one does – but I can assure you that it will be as accurate and as unbiased as man could possibly devise.’

  Ever one to extract the last soupçon of drama from a situation, the Director paused with one finger poised above the keyboard for long enough to allow a total hush to fall over the room. Then, at exactly the right moment, he struck, tapping out a series of instructions at a speed which would have earned him a place in the typing pool any day of the week and which must have taken many hours of rehearsal.

  There was a moment of total silence, the barest fraction of a second, then a red lamp winked and a series of bleeps issued from the command module. The printer emitted an answering buzz and as it leapt into life a daisy-wheel rattled out its respo
nse like a machine-gun.

  From his vantage point near the front, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to calculate the possibilities, but it was a hopeless task. It was obviously too short for his own nomination – Les Cinq Parfaits, near Evian. It was more than one word so it couldn’t be Taillevant, or Bocuse. It was too long for Pic or Chapel. La Mère Blanc at Vézelay perhaps?

  Once again the Director appeared to be milking the situation for all it was worth. As a sheet of paper emerged from the machine, he tore it off and held it up to the light while his audience waited with baited breath.

  They waited in vain. The Director turned white. His lips moved, but gave vent only to a strange choking noise. Clutching at the lectern for support, he slid sideways in a kind of spiralling motion, taking everything with him.

  The resultant explosion of sound as both Director and microphone landed on the floor together, amplified by many decibels, produced a momentary state of shock in those nearest to the dais. A second later there was a forward rush to go to his aid. In the excitement the piece of paper he’d been clutching floated to the floor unheeded, save by Pommes Frites who, thinking it was perhaps some new kind of game, reached out his paw. Monsieur Pamplemousse retrieved the sheet before the worst happened. As he scanned the only typewritten words it bore, he too went white.

  ‘Tell us the worst.’ It was Glandier.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse handed him the paper in silence, unable to bring himself to speak. He wished he’d let Pommes Frites do whatever he’d wanted to do with it.

  Glandier whistled. ‘No wonder the old man threw a wobbly.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of it?’

  ‘The Wun Pooh? I’ve heard of it. It’s a Chinese take-away in Dieppe. It’s supposed to be very popular with day-trippers from England. They go there on the way back from their shopping expeditions. Don’t you remember? There was all that fuss last year.’