Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution Page 2

  ‘Monsieur Leclercq is allowing all this to happen?’

  ‘That’s the odd thing,’ said Truffert. ‘Ever since he arrived back from the States he’s been a different person. Locking himself away with some high-flying time and motion consultant for hours on end; refusing to see anyone else.’

  ‘If you want my opinion,’ said Loudier, ‘he’s flipped. It’s bad enough trying to get into the place as it is. As for eyeball recognition … they’ll be installing passport control next. I shan’t be sorry to say adieu to it all.’

  Loudier had been coming up for retirement for as long as Monsieur Pamplemousse could remember. He had stayed on through a series of short-term contracts, but he sounded in earnest this time.

  ‘You know what the next item on the agenda will be? VipChips! Have one implanted in your arm and you get keyless entry just by waving it at the lock.’

  ‘That’s not the only thing they can do,’ said Truffert. ‘In Africa they use them to keep track of wild animals. Mark my words … they’ll end up being able to keep tabs on your comings and goings via a satellite. Think of that!’

  ‘Talking of which,’ said Loudier, ‘has anyone heard from Madame Grante? I tried ringing the entry bell on her apartment in the rue des Renaudes, but there was no answer. To all intents and purposes she seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.’

  ‘That’s what comes of bringing in outsiders,’ said Glandier. ‘The founder must be turning in his grave. They didn’t have business efficiency experts in his day. Can you imagine?’

  ‘Péage by name,’ said Loudier gloomily. ‘Péage by nature.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked up his ears. He wondered if it had anything to do with the graffiti on the back of the car.

  ‘It isn’t the first time it’s happened,’ explained Loudier. ‘That honour goes to Monsieur Leclercq’s car. It’s at the dealers being attended to. Meantime his space is being used by our new business efficiency guru.’

  ‘What’s the betting the name was changed for the job?’ said Guilot. ‘It probably sounds better.’

  ‘Very Hollywood,’ said Glandier. ‘Like Fred Astaire started out as Frederick Austerlitz.’

  Having been brought up in the Savoy region where there wasn’t much else to do during the winter months, Glandier was a dedicated cineaste and seldom let pass an opportunity to air his knowledge.

  ‘And Doris Day was born Doris von Kappelhoff,’ said Loudier.

  ‘That’s nothing.’ Glandier sounded slightly piqued. ‘Kirk Douglas began life as Iussur Danielovitch Demsky.’

  ‘That sounds a pretty good reason for changing it,’ said Guilot. ‘Think of the trouble he would have had signing autographs if he hadn’t.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing,’ broke in Loudier. ‘I looked Peáge up in the Paris phone book and there isn’t single one listed.’

  ‘Perhaps it started off as Plage,’ said Guilot. ‘It doesn’t have to be major, one letter is often enough. People are always doing it with their kids. Adding a letter on, even simply taking one away. Then they have to go through life spelling it out.’

  ‘There are laws in France about that kind of thing,’ said Loudier.

  ‘It happens,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  He was reminded of the time he’d had cause to investigate the Director’s family plot in the Père Lachaise cemetery.

  Monsieur Leclercq’s family name was Leclerc. He must have decided at some point there were too many listed, so he’d added a ‘q’ to set himself apart. Knowing it was probably a sensitive point, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided not to mention the fact. It would create too much of a diversion.

  His spirits sank still further as the conversation returned to the subject in hand: the future of Le Guide. Clearly, things were even worse than he had anticipated. He wondered if he should mention the summons he had received to return to headquarters, but decided to hold back for the time being, at least until he knew more about what was going on.

  Leafing through the small pile of papers that had accumulated in his tray while he was away, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his pen …

  ‘Zut alors!’ He could have sworn he had it with him when they checked out of the hotel that morning.

  ‘Here … use this.’ Glandier tossed a Biro across the table.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the object. Compared to his Cross writing instrument it didn’t have the right feel at all, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  Initialing the first few papers, he made his excuses and continued on his way up to the Director’s office on the 7th floor.

  Hoping to catch Monsieur Leclercq’s secretary for long enough to get the low-down, he was disappointed to find Véronique emerging from the inner sanctum just as he entered the outer office.

  She looked as though she had been crying, and her whispered ‘bonne chance’ as she squeezed past struck him as being not so much a casual pleasantry as a heartfelt expression of some inner anguish.

  Expecting to find the Director seated in the usual chair behind his desk, he was surprised to see it was empty.

  Glancing round the room, he noted a small workstation in one corner; a laptop, mobile phone and desk-lamp neatly arranged on top, a plush office chair pushed into the kneehole. He assumed it must belong to the new advisor. It all looked very efficient.

  A pair of sliding glass doors in the vast picture window were open, and despite the chill air, the Director was outside on the balcony encircling the whole of the mansard floor.

  He appeared to be gazing into the middle distance, and it wasn’t until Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites drew near that he became aware of their presence and turned to face them.

  It was several weeks since Monsieur Pamplemousse had last seen him, but during that time he appeared to have lost weight, visibly ageing in the process. He was also wearing dark glasses. It must be catching. No wonder Véronique looked worried.

  ‘Ah, Pamplemousse!’ he exclaimed. ‘At long last. I have been looking out for you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to say they would have arrived a quarter of an hour ago if they hadn’t been locked out.

  ‘We came as speedily as we could, monsieur.’

  ‘I suppose the traffic was bad?’ said Monsieur Leclercq.

  ‘Not when we left,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There wasn’t a car to be seen on the road at 5.30 this morning.’

  ‘And you drove straight here?’

  ‘We had a brief break stop at the Aire la Briganderie south of Orleans for Pommes Frites’ benefit …’

  ‘So that he could stretch his legs, I presume?’

  ‘It was more urgent than that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse loyally. ‘He was badly in need of a pipi. As it was he only just made the silver birches in time. I also wanted to see if they had any string …’

  ‘String!’ boomed the Director.

  ‘The passenger door had developed a rattle,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I was worried in case Pommes Frites fell out when we were cornering at speed.’

  Monsieur Leclercq emitted a sigh. ‘Ah, Aristide, I do wish you would pension off that old 2CV of yours and use a company car instead. Although, in the circumstances …’ He broke off, dismissing whatever it was he had been about to say and instead glanced nervously at his watch.

  Waving towards the visitor’s chair, he followed them back into the room.

  Pressing a button to trigger off the automatic closing of the sliding doors, there was a faint, but luxurious hiss of escaping air from his black leather armchair as he seated himself.

  Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on the desk in front of him, forming a steeple with his hands as he gathered his thoughts.

  It may have been the result of wearing dark glasses, but it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the overall effect was more suggestive of the Leaning Tower of Pisa than the upright spire of Sainte-Chapelle.

  Happening to glance to his left during the pause
that followed, he saw the door to the drinks cupboard was open. A bottle of Monsieur Leclercq’s favourite cognac, Roullet Très Hors d’Age, was standing alongside an empty glass, and he couldn’t help wondering if it were a case of cause and effect.

  Also, it might have been his imagination or simply a trick of the light, but the heavily framed portrait above the cupboard appeared to show the sitter looking even more forbidding than usual. On second thoughts ‘strained’ might be a better description.

  Perhaps Glandier was right and even now Le Guide’s founder, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, was in the process of turning over in his grave.

  In much the same way that the subject’s eyes in many portraits had a disconcerting habit of appearing to follow the viewer round a room, so the founder’s portrait never failed to reflect the prevailing mood; his steely eyes acting like the mercury in a barometer as they moved up and down according to the prevailing temperature.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but glance surreptitiously at his own watch. The hands showed 13.45.

  Following whatever was on the menu for the main course at Michel Bras, poached fois gras with beetroot perhaps, or his renowned filet of Aubrac beef, they might have been rounding things off with a chocolate coolant: another ‘signature’ dish, inspired, so it was said, by a family skiing holiday. The warmth of a hollowed-out sponge, sometimes filled with fruit, at other times with chocolate or caramel, the whole capped with a scoop of frozen double cream, was intended to give the effect of a snow-covered mountain peak.

  As he remembered it, the latter truly was the icing on the cake; much imitated, but never surpassed. It was no wonder the restaurant boasted three Stock Pots in Le Guide.

  The thought reminded him of how hungry he felt, and he knew someone else who would be even more upset if he knew what was passing through his mind.

  Except the ‘someone else’ in question, blissfully unaware of his master’s thought processes, was making full use of the lull in order to look for the water bowl that was invariably made ready for him whenever he visited the Director’s office. He peered round the desk and behind the waste bin, but he couldn’t see it anywhere. Such a thing had never happened before, bringing home to him, as nothing else could, the full seriousness of the situation.

  Having drawn a blank, he gave vent to a deep sigh and settled down at his master’s feet to await developments.

  The Director gave a start and came back down to earth from wherever he had been.

  ‘No doubt, Pamplemousse,’ he said, ‘you are wondering why I sent for you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse sat back in his chair. He couldn’t have put it better if he tried.

  ‘As you may know,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I have recently returned from a visit to New York. While I was there, I paid a courtesy call on a company not dissimilar in size to our own.

  ‘One of the things I discovered was that they have what they call a “vibe” manager; a person whose sole function it is to report back to the management on matters concerning staff satisfaction.

  ‘In my position, Aristide, it is all too easy to lose touch with the rank and file.’

  You’re telling me, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. Getting in touch with them from the beginning and staying that way might be the answer.

  ‘Tell me, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘you are a man of the world, and I place great value on your powers of observation. How would you rate the vibes within our own organisation?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse hardly knew where to begin. ‘I, too, have been away,’ he said, slowly gathering his thoughts. ‘But in the short time I have been back I have noticed a number of things. There is a feeling of unhappiness in the air. Rumours are rife, and since they are spreading in all directions, much as tiny waves are set in motion when you throw a stone into the waters of a lake, they are hard to evaluate.

  ‘To put it bluntly, monsieur, I would say our own vibes indicate that matters have possibly reached an all-time low.’

  ‘Ah!’ Monsieur Leclercq shrank back in his seat. As he did so, there was another hiss of escaping air; almost as though he was being engulfed by the weight of some vast, overpowering tidal wave and had given up the fight. ‘I feared as much.’

  ‘Can I get you anything, monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse voiced his fears as he jumped to his feet. ‘A glass of cognac, perhaps?’

  ‘You are a good man, Pamplemousse.’ The Director reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. ‘Perhaps you would care to join me? I think you may be in need of one too when you hear what I have to tell you.’

  An innocent enough remark: it seemed like a good idea to Monsieur Pamplemousse at the time.

  Afterwards he was to realise that even a spider’s web has to start somewhere.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Life, Aristide,’ began the Director, ‘is not all champagne and boules.’

  ‘That is true the world over,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, doing his best to offer words of comfort. ‘Par exemple, I imagine in Russia they probably use the phrase “vodka and onions”.’

  ‘Onions?’ repeated Monsieur Leclercq.

  ‘I was thinking of those domes they have on top of their buildings,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘In Grande Bretagne,’ he continued, warming to his theme, ‘I believe they say life is not all beer and skittles.’

  ‘From what one reads of their behaviour at football matches, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director testily, ‘one could be forgiven for thinking it was. The perfidious Albions are past masters at the art of twisting facts to suit themselves.’

  ‘I believe they feel the same way about us,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Vive la différence.’

  Monsieur Leclercq removed the dark glasses and leant back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling as though involved in a life and death struggle with his innermost thoughts.

  ‘You were about to explain why we were summoned,’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  The Director looked as though he was beginning to wish he hadn’t.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘I should begin at the beginning.’

  ‘It is always a good place,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Recalling his long past visit to Père Lachaise, he couldn’t help adding: ‘Especially given your family motto – Ab ovo usque ad mala.’

  The Director gave a start. ‘“From beginning to end”. Your memory does you credit, Aristide. Although I fear the latter part of it is none too apposite at this juncture. The end is far from in sight. Would that it were. However, it was good of you to come so quickly.’

  ‘I had been hoping to slip into Laguiole while I was in the area and visit Pierre Calmels’ workshop,’ said Monsieur Pamplemouse pointedly. ‘I had in mind buying my wife a new kitchen knife for Christmas. Such a present from the oldest coutellerie in the town would have had a special cachet.’

  ‘They do say the handle of traditional Laguiole knives is modelled on a young girl’s thigh,’ said Monsieur Leclercq dreamily.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to point out that had been at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and history didn’t record anything beyond the designer’s name, which was Eustache Dubois. Clearly, the Director had his mind on other matters.

  ‘It all began,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘when I was returning from a recent visit to New York, where I had been attending a seminar on business efficiency. It was in the nature of a damage repair mission. Since what is still referred to as 9/11, there has been a noticeable slackening in the exchange of views between our two great nations, almost as though we were at war with each other. Windows belonging to French restaurants in Dallas have been smeared with noxious substances of a personal nature. Congress registered its displeasure by renaming French fries in its cafeterias “freedom fries” – a classic case of having their cake and eating it if ever there was one.

  ‘Fortunately, it was only a temporary measure, but in the meantime sales of Le Guide
have plummeted. I understand from a bookshop on Lexington Avenue they no longer have them on general display, but provide them under plain cover.’

  ‘There will always be those, mostly on the East and West coasts, who like to regard France as their second home and will continue to visit us, come what may,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But sadly, for the time being they are in the minority and tend to keep that fact to themselves, especially, so I am told, when they are travelling across Middle America.’

  Monsieur Leclercq nodded his agreement. ‘Even then I might not have gone, but Véronique came up with a brainwave.

  ‘I must confess that after a strenuous week immersed in statistics and high-pressure salesmanship I was looking forward to the flight home and a chance to relax. You come across such a diverse range of people when you fly, especially when you travel Première Classe: a captain of industry one week, a leading scientist another, president of an oil company the next, politicians of note, film stars …

  ‘In my experience, the latter are often the worst; always showing their profile rather than looking out of the window, or making outrageous demands on the cabin staff just as the plane is about to land. Given half a chance some of them would want the whole cabin redecorated before they deign to come aboard.

  ‘However, it was the first time I had ever found myself seated next to a nun …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to picture it. ‘Perhaps the good lady had been upgraded out of regard for her advancing years?’ he suggested.

  ‘I think not,’ said the Director. ‘If that were the case the person in charge of the check-in desk needed to have their eyes tested. She was a pretty little thing.’

  ‘Aah!’ If Monsieur Leclercq wanted to focus his subordinate’s attention, he was going the right way about it. Tastes in these matters varied enormously, of course, and Monsieur Pamplemousse was the last person to set himself up as an arbiter in such matters, but one thing was certain; place the Director amongst a group of disparate members of the opposite sex and he would unerringly make a beeline for the one who had all the hallmarks of being a troublemaker.