Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines (7 page)

‘It was my first visit.’

‘Well, then…’

‘Perhaps it was meant,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply.

Catching her looking at him he elaborated. ‘Who is to say what is a coincidence and what is preordained?’

‘Who indeed?’ said Madame Chavignol thoughtfully.

At least she seemed to have no idea of his connection with
Le Guide
. There was no reason why she should of course, but it made his task easier. Having said that, the plain truth was he had no idea where to lead the
conversation
. It was all very well for the Director, sending him off to spy out the territory. But having established a
bridgehead
as it were, what next?

He was acutely aware of her surveying him across the top of her champagne glass. Her long legs were crossed, the upper one moving slowly up and down like a metronome. It was a well-known syndrome – he had come across it before. As ever he couldn’t help being reminded of the offshore oil derricks common to the West Coast of California; inexorable, regular, hypnotic, like the pecking ducks that had been all the rage in souvenir shops at one time.

Under different circumstances he might have suspected her of doing it on purpose, but it didn’t feel that way. It was hard to tell what was going on behind those dark glasses. If anything she seemed preoccupied with her own 
thoughts, just as he was with his.

It was hard to picture her sitting on top of a washing machine; those same elegant legs encircling Monsieur Leclercq, drawing him ever closer towards her; the Director holding on like grim death as the motor gathered speed. But then that was often the case with other people’s peccadilloes. The older he got the more he found nothing surprised him any more.

‘What are you thinking?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse came to his senses with a start. She would probably be mortified if he told her the truth. Concentrate Pamplemousse!

‘May I call you Aristide?’ she continued. ‘I can’t keep calling you by your surname. Besides, you don’t look at all like a grapefruit.’ Her voice was soft and low. Perhaps she was musical after all.

‘Please do.’

‘Your name was in all the
journaux
this morning,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘And your photograph. They all seemed to think it was something of a coincidence too. I gather you were very famous during your time with the
Sûreté
. One of them likened you to a dog with a bone. You never gave up.’

‘The media always fasten on these things,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It gives an added edge to their stories. You shouldn’t pay too much attention to them…’ He didn’t know whether to call her Madame or use her full title.

She solved the problem for him. ‘Please call me Claudette. It was a little joke Claude and I had. He always called me his “little Claudette”.’

When she smiled her teeth were flawless. Small, regular and flawless, they lit up her face. He wondered how many people she had dug them into over the years. The Director 
clearly wasn’t the only one by a long chalk.

‘I call my wife “Couscous”,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘When we first met I took her out to
dinner
one evening. It was on the fringes of the 18th and all we could find were middle eastern restaurants. It became a joke and somehow it stuck.’

‘There you are,’ said Claudette. ‘Talking of bones…’ She picked up the phone again and issued an order.

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt himself warming to her.

She replaced the receiver. ‘May I ask you something?’

‘Of course…’

‘Everything happened so suddenly; I don’t know which way to turn. It isn’t that I don’t trust the police, but… I have never before felt so alone…’

He had an inkling of what she was going to say, but it all came out in a rush.

It never rained but what it poured. It was the third time he’d been asked to take on the case in as many hours. It seemed to him that everyone wanted to use him for their own ends.

In the case of the
journal
it was a straightforward
business
proposition; a desire to steal a march over their rivals along with the added bonus of all the publicity that would go with it. With Monsieur Leclercq it had been the reverse; fear of publicity was undoubtedly at the bottom of it; fear of the effect it would have on
Le Guide
and on his
personal
reputation should the photographs be revealed, not to mention the fact that his life at home wouldn’t be worth living.

Madame Chantal Leclercq had a reputation for keeping her husband on a very short lead. There had been the
occasion
when he had indulged in a brief dalliance with an English
au pair
called Elsie. She had soon put a stop to that!

And now came the third offer. It was understandable 
that Claudette should want to get to the bottom of her
husband’s
murder, but it was early days. Perhaps she was simply clutching at straws.

He was saved giving an immediate answer by the arrival of the first course: chicken
consommé
, to which some well ripened chopped tomatoes had been added at the time of clarifying. The skins must have been left on, for it was a delicate pink colour. Served cold in a cup, it was deliciously refreshing; fully worthy of a Stock Pot in
Le Guide
.

‘Superb!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse signified his approval as he dabbed at his lips with the napkin.

‘
Merci
. Yang is an absolute marvel. He came at the same time as Yin. I call them Yin and Yang because that is the way they are. Yin, as you have seen, is dark and can be very negative at times. Yang, the chef, is bright and
positive
. He helps…
helped
my husband with his recipes for the programme.’

Created them more like it, if this soup is anything to go by, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. There was a
confidence
about the dish that showed a master hand at work.

Along with more champagne, a bottle of Chateldon water appeared.

‘And yesterday’s dish – the single oyster – that was Yang’s idea?’

‘No, that was entirely Claude’s doing. Normally the routine was that we would have lunch together and he would go to the studios later in the day. All the technical rehearsals and run-throughs took place with a stand-in during the morning and early afternoon. He was brought up in the tradition of the stage and he liked to keep things as fresh as possible. That was another reason for having an audience – he was at his best with a spontaneous reaction.’

The first course was followed by lobster salad; the
lobster
 
cut into small pieces and mixed in with equal portions of diced cucumber and brown rice.

The cucumber was crisp, having been well salted and drained. Seasoned with an olive oil and vinegar dressing, it had been lightly peppered and sprinkled with finely chopped chervil. The brown Italian rice had been cooked in chicken stock and seasoned with grated nutmeg. The whole had been garnished with a sprinkling of chopped black olives.

A white Meursault accompanied the dish. He tried to catch the label, but it was covered by a napkin. He guessed at a Lafon. Unrefined, yet splendidly elegant.

‘Is the wine your chef’s choice too?’

Claudette nodded. ‘I shall be sorry to lose him,’ she said wryly.

‘Will that be necessary?’

‘I doubt if he will want to stay on just for me. Who knows? He may wish to open his own restaurant. I know someone who may be able to help him.’

I bet you do, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘How long has he been with you?’

‘Long enough for me to know him as well as I know the next person.’

‘Did he have anything to do with the preparation of the oyster?’

‘He wouldn’t do such a thing if that’s what you are thinking. I would trust him with my life.’

And you, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse again, must be a Leo to be so sure of yourself.

‘What happened yesterday afternoon? You followed the same routine?’

‘Yesterday there was even less to do. Claude didn’t go in until much later than usual. As I say, he only had the
single
oyster to take with him. The seaweed was provided by 
the studio.’

A sudden breeze funnelling through neighbouring buildings caused a slight downdraft and as the leaves began to rustle he saw what looked like a minotaur
peering
at him from behind a colonnade. A bird pecking at a piece of bread took flight, carrying what was left in its beak.

Claudette gave a shiver. ‘At least it meant we had more time together. Perhaps you are right when you say some things are meant. I cannot believe it was simply a
coincidence
, any more than your being here today is. That is why I feel I need your help. You are so much more
thorough
than the police. They hardly asked any questions.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘Everyone has their methods. I am a Capricorn. Capricorns may take their time, but they get there in the end.’

The meat course was
compote
of baby rabbit in vegetable aspic, along with mushroom, button onions, tiny carrots and herbs – he detected tarragon, chervil and chives.

The
gelée
itself had been well clarified; clear and sparkling, it kept its shape without being at all rubbery.

With it came red Bordeaux. A Château
Pichon-Longeville
Baron ‘90. He wondered if Claudette always lunched as well, or whether she was putting on a special display for his benefit. Obviously it must be the former since he had arrived unannounced. The loss of her
husband
certainly hadn’t affected her appetite.

He was longing to get at the notebook he kept concealed in the right leg of his trousers for just such occasions. The whole thing was such an unexpected bonus. If Yang did open a restaurant it could be a welcome addition to
Le Guide
; a feather in his own cap for being first with the news.

‘May I offer you a cup of drinking chocolate?’ 

Once again she seemed to be reading his thoughts. ‘I
follow
the Montignac method of keeping fit. Three good meals a day, with nothing in between. Don’t totally give up what you really crave for, but enjoy it in moderation. Chocolate being his particular weakness, he manages to include it in his regime. He maintains it is good for the digestion. Provided it is over 70% pure cocoa, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily, then went on: ‘But cooking can also be an art; a matter of
inspiration
, a performance. It is like acting. In a world that is populated by countless millions of people, some actors have only to utter a few words and you know at once who it is.

‘Chefs speak with their food. Their world has an infinite variety of ingredients, but there are the select few who are able to combine them in such a way that their voice is immediately recognisable. That is where actors have the advantage. Their voices can be recorded; great meals are things of the moment; created only to be consumed.

‘I am not surprised your chef is Japanese. Up to now it has been more a case of French chefs spending time in the Orient. Fusion cookery is now the current buzzword. There is no reason why there shouldn’t be a movement in the opposite direction: Japanese chefs coming over here and taking us on at what we believe to be our home ground.’

‘You seem very knowledgeable on the subject.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse realised he had better
soft-pedal
his connection with food. Not for the first time his enthusiasm was getting the better of him. A few minutes earlier he had been racking his brains trying to think of a way of turning the conversation to suit his own purposes, now he had taken it up another blind alley.

Claudette did it for him. Raising her sunglasses until 
they rested on top of her head, she leaned forward, gently touched his knee and gazed into his eyes.

‘I shall miss Claude’s voice.’

Her eyes were green. Arguably the deepest green he had ever seen. He wondered if she wore coloured contact
lenses
. If that were the case, combined with the unusually dark glasses it was a wonder she found her way around at all.

‘You don’t have to answer now. But… please think it over. Let me have your card, then at least I shall have someone to call on if I need help…’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t carry one.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse had a mental picture of Doucette answering the phone and his reply was automatic. All too late he remembered he had produced his card at the gate, but Claudette appeared not to notice.

For a moment he thought she was about to cry. Then, as swiftly as she had moved towards him she withdrew her hand from his knee.

There was a crash as the bottle of wine went flying.

‘
Mon Dieu
!’ Grabbing hold of the napkin he began
dabbing
at his trousers, but it was already too late; he could feel the liquid soaking into them. His first thought was for his precious notebook; his second for the
Pichon-Longueville
. His third, he had to admit, was for Madame Chavignol.

‘Forgive me!’

‘
Tant pis
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Never mind.’

‘But I do mind!’

So vivid had been Monsieur Leclercq’s description of his indiscretions, the possibility flashed through Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind that the whole thing might be a ploy with a visit to the laundry-room in mind. He
immediately
rejected the thought as without the slightest
hesitation
she picked up the phone and called for help. 

Within seconds Yin came running armed with a fresh roll of paper towel.

‘Please to come with me,’ he said interpreting his
mistress’s
hurried instructions.

‘Take your time!’ Claudette set about clearing away the pieces of broken glass. She seemed genuinely mortified.

Transported upstairs in double quick time and finding himself in what appeared to be the master bedroom, Monsieur Pamplemousse was quick to take advantage of the situation. It was an ill wind that blew nobody any good.