Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web Page 2

  ‘What is a helmsman?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse, for want of anything better to say on the spur of the moment. ‘I cannot picture it being a word which has the approval of the Académie Française.’

  ‘And never will,’ said the Director. ‘I understand it is an Americanism for the man in charge, and in this instance I gather he looked a bruiser if ever there was one.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘I understand what the person who wrote the letter is saying,’ he continued, ‘and the whole thing was undoubtedly a botch-up of monumental proportions, but there are black sheep in every walk of life, and the restaurant world is not without its fair share of them.

  ‘I doubt if the establishment in question aspires to being listed in Le Guide, or anywhere else of note for that matter … rather the reverse. A visit from the Food Fraud Squad and a lecture about the perils of “passing off” will soon set things right. And if it doesn’t, then so much the worse for them. They will be leant on in no uncertain manner.

  ‘If you wish, Monsieur, I will put the word around in the right quarter. As you may recall, I spent some time with the food squad during my time with the Sûreté. Seeking out run-of-the-mill chicken being sold as birds from Bresse; scales with doctored weights; margarine in croissants instead of butter; that kind of underhand behaviour. But nothing quite so blatantly criminal as the one described in the letter.’

  It struck him that if that was all the Director had in mind it could have been left until later in the day.

  ‘I fear that isn’t the end of the story,’ said Monsieur Leclercq gloomily. ‘The moral of which is: if you don’t wish matters to be spread far and wide to all and sundry, as far as is humanly possible, keep them away from my wife.

  ‘As ill luck would have it, Chantal happened to be on the phone to her Uncle Rocco shortly after I received the courrier électronique you have just read … he phoned her, I might add, not the other way round …’

  ‘Uncle Rocco?’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The one who has a laundry business in Sicily? As I recall, he is often referred to as Uncle Caputo because of his Mafia connections.’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director gloomily. ‘And he enjoys the nickname for very good reasons. He has a swift way of dealing with those who cross his path. “Ironing out the creases”, is his way of putting it.’

  ‘Malheur?’ hazarded Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Bad news?’

  ‘With a capital M,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Malheureusement! I sometimes wish with all my heart he would sever his connections with what he calls “my friends in the mob”, if only for Chantal’s peace of mind, but alas it is not to be.’

  ‘In that respect the rules of the Cosa Nostra bear a certain likeness to the Club des Cent,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Only in reverse. In the case of the Mafia, once you become a member there is only one way out, I fear. Feet first. And I can’t see that happening. As you wisely say, Monsieur, your wife’s uncle didn’t come by the nickname Caputo without a very good reason. What is it this time?’

  The Director glanced nervously over his shoulder. ‘Walls have ears, Aristide,’ he said. ‘I thought I heard a noise. I cannot stress too highly that Uncle Rocco is not an actual member of the Cosa Nostra. He has no aspirations of becoming a godfather or anything like that. He simply acts as their go-between from time to time.’

  ‘That’s his story,’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. In his experience, one involvement quickly led to another and there was no going back.

  ‘However,’ continued the Director, ‘to keep up her end of the conversation Chantal told him all about the episode with the steak. She thought he might be interested. People in that walk of life are known to have affinities with the restaurant trade. They often use them as a kind of gathering place.’

  ‘Not always to their advantage,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Food is very important to Italians and the Mafia is no exception. Like any other body of people they have their favourites. Steakhouses are where they can be often be found en masse as it were; hence the number of massacres that have taken place in such places over the years. Sparks Steak House in New York is the most written about example.

  ‘Historically, it took place in New York in 1985, when Paul Castellano, head of the Gambino crime family, was gunned down.

  ‘One could cite many others. It is a part of their code, since it affords the victims enjoyment of their last meal on this earth before they die, although in Paul Castellano’s case he didn’t even get to do that. It happened just as he was about to enter Sparks.’

  ‘Do you know what Uncle Rocco said about our restaurant?’ asked the Director.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head.

  ‘“It isn’t on any list that I know of, bambina. But don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I will see what can be arranged. That kind of behaviour gives the Mafia a bad name.”’

  ‘I will see what I can do …’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘I am very much afraid, Pamplemousse,’ broke in the Director gloomily, ‘it is too late. The so-called helmsman of the restaurant in question met with an unfortunate accident on his way home late one night. His body was found floating in the canal St Martin shortly after the night in question.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse allowed himself a brief whistle. ‘Sacrebleu!’ he exclaimed. ‘And the restaurant? What has happened to it?’

  ‘Closed for staff holidays,’ said the Director. ‘Or so I am told.’

  ‘That covers a multitude of sins,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘When did all this happen? I have to confess to being a bit out of date with events in Paris.’

  ‘I don’t have an actual date,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘It must have been hushed up at the time. Probably at the request of the minister responsible for tourism. But I know who did it. Or rather, I can guess who ordered it to be done, and it is rather too near home for my liking.

  ‘It is a travesty of justice, Aristide. What became of the old adage about making the punishment fit the crime? Chantal’s uncle has always been very good to her. She is the pomme of his eye, but a line has to be drawn somewhere …’

  ‘I’m sure he meant well,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is simply a fact of life with the Mafia. They have different priorities to us. Life is cheap in Sicily, but on the whole their quarrels are kept within the various families. Innocent passers-by have little to worry about. I imagine someone just a phone call away must have owed your wife’s uncle a favour.

  ‘There would also be an element of punishing the restaurant owner for falling down on his job and allowing the scam to be brought to light. It would have upset Uncle Rocco’s sensibilities. He is a very fastidious person in that respect. To use a classic phrase, the owner of the restaurant had it coming to him.’

  ‘Chantal didn’t get a wink of sleep all that night thinking about it,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I hope it doesn’t mean the Mafia are contemplating moving in over here. It would happen when we are in the throes of putting next year’s guide to bed. It could wreak havoc with some of our entries. Things are difficult enough as it is with all these iPhones and iPads listing restaurants wherever you are at the touch of a button.’

  ‘None of those devices have the “point of view” of a professional,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse soothingly. ‘That is our great strength.’

  ‘Try telling that to Madame Grante in Accounts,’ countered Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Times are hard for all of us, Aristide. Commercial travellers are no longer “on the road taking orders”, but doing it from home placing their orders via the Internet. Even our nearest rival, Michelin, have had to vacate their prestigious premises in the avenue de Breteuil for a new address in Boulogne-Billancourt, beyond the Périphérique.’

  The Director made it sound as though the move was beyond the pale.

  ‘A lot of well-known people live beyond the Périphérique,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Not
after having been in the same building for well over a hundred years,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘It is a worrying development, especially for an enterprise of their size and integrity. Their Director, Jean-Luc Naret, refused to go for a start. Now they have brought in an American who was born in Colorado. I fear the worst. Have you ever tried eating in Colorado, Pamplemousse?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse confessed the Director had a point. ‘The founders, Édouard and André Michelin, must be turning in their graves,’ he said. ‘On the other hand, a growing number of people were beginning to think Michelin were failing to move with the times, and I have read that the newcomer is not only a lover of our country, but he spent some time working in a Michelin one-star restaurant and he even has a French wife. You could hardly ask for more.’

  ‘All the more reason for us to look to our laurels,’ boomed the Director. ‘They have the name of their great tyre concern flying the flag for them. We rely entirely on sales of Le Guide.

  ‘Strictly between ourselves, Aristide, and I know I can trust you not to let it pass beyond these four walls for the time being, I have it in mind to move with the times and introduce what I believe is known as an app onto our website which will enable anyone with a mobile telephone finding themselves in a strange locality and wanting up-to-date information from Le Guide to do so on payment of a small fee.

  ‘You may have encountered the newest member of our staff; a multi-talented, computer-literate individual called Barnaud. He is currently attached to Loudier, who as you know is approaching retirement.

  ‘Barnaud has a degree in the electronics industry and his background is impeccable. It is he who put up the idea. I would like to move ahead as quickly as possible and to that end I am entrusting him with setting up a programme in time for next year’s edition of Le Guide. He won’t of course have details of all the changes that will be taking place with regard to the revised ratings of restaurants. Those, as always, will remain top secret until the day of publication, so that will be a last-minute affair.’

  ‘Do you think that is wise?’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse. He couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Barnaud’s own words,’ said the Director. ‘And that is what endeared him to me to and sealed the package.

  ‘As proof of his integrity he phoned me later that same day and gave me the telephone number of the professor at his old university, insisting I shouldn’t dream of going ahead until I had spoken with him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was a direct line so I got through straight away, but proving my own identity turned out to be the hardest part. Once he accepted I was who I said I was he couldn’t have been more helpful. He gave Barnaud a glowing report. I doubt if it could have been bettered. Then he, in turn, insisted on putting me through to the dean of the college, who confirmed every word the professor had uttered.

  ‘In the meantime, until everything is up and running, we must learn to tighten our belts and learn to accept the world as it is, not as we would like it to be.

  ‘Taking advice from Madame Grante I have ordered the fountain to be turned off during the night, and Rambaud, the gatekeeper, is starting work an hour later.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse supposed it must be a start in the right direction, however modest it might seem.

  ‘Madame Grante does tend to look on the dark side of life,’ he said. ‘As for the Mafia; their tentacles spread far and wide, but in so far as France is concerned they were mostly rooted out in the early 1970s with the break-up of the so-called “French Connection” and the moving of the old heroin pipeline to the United States, which went via Marseilles, to Palermo in Sicily. The net result was that what up until then had been an impoverished island in the Mediterranean became one of the richest parts of Italy, although my understanding is they are currently suffering in much the same way as the rest of the world.

  ‘But that doesn’t mean to say we don’t have our own crime gangs. Take the case of the major jewel robbery from Harry Winston’s boutique in the avenue Montaigne. It took place in broad daylight and the total haul was valued at 85 million euros, no less.

  ‘It was thought to be the work of an international gang at first, but everywhere these days there are wheels within wheels. Lips are sealed. Favours done. Two years later, 14 million euros of it was found hidden in a rainwater drain of a house in a Paris suburb.’

  ‘Now Uncle Rocco thinks we owe him a favour,’ the Director broke in gloomily. ‘I strongly suspect he may have had that in the back of his mind when he made his arrangements. I wouldn’t put it past him.

  ‘I keep telling Chantal it wasn’t confined to steaks. There are other scams going on as well in the restaurant world … I have an example Uncle Rocco sent us to prove his point. It landed on our front desk two days ago: labelled URGENT and addressed to me. There was a brief note inside from him.’

  Reaching down, he opened a drawer and withdrew a small package wrapped in silver paper. First of all he removed the outer covering and then he began unwinding several layers of greaseproof paper.

  Pommes Frites leapt to his feet as an unmistakably earthy smell filled the room; a smell made all the more potent for having been confined to a relatively small space ever since its arrival.

  His tail shot up, wagging furiously, while his lips began to salivate as he recognised the unmistakable scent of a truffle.

  ‘Have you ever seen such a prime example of the Tuber melanosporum, Aristide?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq, unwrapping the final layer of greaseproof paper to reveal a knobbly object the size of a giant lemon.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘Only in photographs, and some of those were probably blown-up out of all proportion, but this particular example of a “black diamond” has to be seen to be believed.’

  ‘Think of the number of people who must have been seduced into ordering a truffle omelette when it was passed around the restaurant,’ said the Director. ‘It must have been worth its weight in gold to them.’

  ‘Relatively speaking, of course,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘When it comes to a truffle of these dimensions,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘you cannot relate it to anything else on this earth, Aristide.’

  ‘Or in the earth,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Always provided one knows where to look. They are God’s gift to mankind.’

  He had to admit it was the biggest, most beautiful specimen of a black Périgord truffle he had ever seen.

  ‘It will seem almost a sacrilege when you come to eating it, Monsieur.’

  ‘Alas, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I fear that is not to be. Uncle Rocco wants it back. I suspect he only sent it to me in the first place because he was seeking an expert opinion as to its validity. He is more familiar with the white Italian Tuber magnatum from Piedmont in northern Italy. The tartufi bianchi have a powerful scent. They can grow to the size of tennis balls overnight, but the downside is they need to be consumed straight away or they go into a steep decline. Besides, Italians tend to make use of them thinly sliced rather than cooked whole as we often do.

  ‘Do you think this one is real, Aristide? Knowing the years you spent in the Food Fraud Squad of the Paris Sûreté, I had in mind seeking your advice on the subject. Time is of the essence. Meanwhile, having said that, I must guard it with my life.’

  ‘A great deal of research has been devoted to the subject in recent years,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘ever since Chinese truffles first appeared on the scene and for a while almost put paid to the European trade in the real thing. Then it was Moroccan Whites dyed black that went into a restaurant’s omelettes, while the real thing, such as this proud example of the Tuber melanosporum, would remain untouched.

  ‘There is now a national databank of the various molecules that combine to produce the aroma. It is possible to identify by means of DNA tests the area of the world they come from. For example, scientific studies show that the Périgord truffle in particular has a remarkably active sex life. Perhaps beca
use it is French.’

  ‘Must you bring sex into everything, Pamplemousse?’ said the Director wearily.

  ‘I think you will find, Monsieur, that one way and another, whether we like it or not, sex plays a part in most of the things we do in life,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘In many ways it is what makes the world go round.

  ‘As always, the great Brillat-Savarin had very positive views on the subject. He maintains, and I quote: “Who says truffle pronounces a great word, charged with toothsome and amorous memories for the skirted sex, and for the bearded sex with memories both amorous and toothsome. It can on occasion make women more tender and men more apt to love.”

  ‘In the case of the Périgord truffle, you would be surprised at what goes on underground between the male and female elements. It has to do with what are known as pheromones: pungent sexual odours given off by the male when it wishes to attract a partner in the interest of increasing its spores. Pigs do much the same thing when they want to attract a mate. It is all very basic. Whereas we humans spend any amount of money on perfumes which in the end make very little difference to our real selves, at certain times truffles exude a scent that speaks volumes to any passing dog or pig.’

  ‘I would rather not think about it, Pamplemousse, thank you very much,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘At least truffles confine their goings-on to below ground, unlike some others I could name.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored the interruption. ‘On the other hand, Monsieur,’ he continued, ‘one should beware of “truffle-flavoured” products, especially around Christmas time. Par exemple, cheap bottles of olive oil laced with so-called truffle aroma, when in fact what they really taste of is a synthetic chemical agent.’

  ‘Ah, science,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘It has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘It brings us all down to earth at times,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘On the other hand there is a great deal we must thank it for.’

  ‘Tomatoes that look as though they have been grown in a laboratory, rather than a field,’ countered the Director. ‘All exactly the same size, genetically modified groups of them snugly pre-packed into their standardised boxes; smelling and tasting of nothing because they have been developed solely for the benefit of the manufacturers, rather than the customers.