Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives (15 page)

‘In a hotel that specialises in looking after pets, the loss of a dog could spell disaster. Having a bomb
is bad enough, but to have a pet die on them …’

Having first detached a piece of ham from the bone, Monsieur Pamplemousse lifted up the lid of the basket and signalled Pommes Frites to jump inside. His command was obeyed on the instant.

‘Assieds-toi, s’il te plaît.
’

Pommes Frites’ rear end disappeared from view.

‘
Mort!
’ His head followed suit.

‘
Bon chien
!

‘Communication is all a matter of using the right words at the right time,’ he said, turning to the others as he closed the lid. ‘Now, if you will excuse me I must put through a call to the management.’

Picking up the nearest phone, he consulted a list beside it and pressed a button. It was answered almost immediately.

‘I am speaking on behalf of Monsieur Rosemburg,’ he said. ‘Mr Hirem K. Rosemburg.

‘Yes … the Presidential Suite. I have something very sad to report …

‘
Oui
. That is what all the barking was about …

‘
Oui
. The Great Kennel in the sky …

‘
Oui
. I know it is the second one today …’

‘Monsieur Rosemburg is of the opinion it is Legionnaire’s disease … a fault in the air conditioning, perhaps? … The whole system may need replacing …

‘
D’accord
. That will not be necessary. We already have a basket …

‘The goods entrance … I will give you the address it needs to be delivered to …

‘Place Marcel Aymé … that is correct, Marcel Aymé … the 18
^th
arrondissement
… an apartment block by the statue to Monsieur Aymé … the seventh floor …

‘
Oui
, I think Monsieur Rosemburg will also be leaving soon …

‘Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.

‘Perhaps,’ he said, replacing the phone, ‘someone will give me a hand carrying the basket to the door. There are times when Pommes Frites can feel like a dead weight and this has to be one of them.’

‘But that is your own address, is it not …’ began the Director.

‘It is where he is happiest,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘And even if all else has failed and they are still searching for him, I think at this stage, home is the last place they will think of looking.’

He had to admit he could hardly fault the hotel on their speed and efficiency once the matter was in hand. They had hardly reached the door when the bell rang. Opening it revealed two burly security men waiting outside. Bidding the others in the room a temporary goodbye, he accompanied the men down to the ground floor by the service lift.

It was good to know that Pommes Frites was in safe hands. Monosyllabic they might be, perhaps
out of a sense of occasion, but they were clearly good at their job. Taking the
périphérique
and coming off at Porte de St Ouen, it wouldn’t be long before Pommes Frites was safely home.

Arriving back upstairs he relieved Véronique of his mobile.

‘Now, if you will forgive me, I must telephone my wife and warn her … please carry on with your
déjeuner
. If I may,
Monsieur
, I will make the call in the other room so that I won’t disturb you.’

‘Don’t be too long, Aristide,’ said the Director. ‘Something tells me we should eat all we can while we can.’

Monsieur Leclercq’s words, half spoken in jest, were to turn out more prophetic than even he anticipated before the day was out.

In fact, Monsieur Pamplemousse made more than one call and it wasn’t until he was about to hang up on the last that he heard a familiar voice coming from the other room. Opening the communicating door, he went back into the main room just in time to see the Director embracing a new arrival.

‘Elsie …’ boomed Monsieur Leclercq. ‘You haven’t changed a bit. You feel exactly as you always did.’

‘Saucebox!’ said Elsie. ‘I could say the same about you.’

Seeing Monsieur Pamplemousse emerge from the other room, she detached herself from the Director’s clutches.

‘You ’aven’t rung Ron yet, ’ave you?’ she said accusingly.

Monsieur Pamplemousse admitted he hadn’t.

‘He’s been on at me to give ’im your number, but I didn’t ’ave it, so I rang Monsieur Leclercq on account of Ron said to tell you in person. He says it’s urgent.’

‘Tell me what?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘He thought you might like to know the real Mrs Beardmore is alive and well and living in Seattle.’

Had Elsie announced that another bomb had been planted in the very room in which they were gathered and that it was about to go off at any moment, it could hardly have had greater effect.

‘Is he sure?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Sure as ’e’s doing five years for being careless.’

It was Monsieur Leclercq who asked the obvious question.

‘He left ’is dabs on some Sellotape din ’e,’ said Elsie. ‘You know what? Never press your mitts down on a bit of Sellotape if you’ve got dust on your fingers. It’s a dead giveaway.’

‘Has he any idea who this Mrs Beardmore might be?’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Reaching into her handbag, Elsie produced a mobile and dialled a number.

‘You can ask ’im yourself,’ she said.

Preliminary pleasantries aside, the conversation
was brief and to the point. Monsieur Pamplemousse had the feeling that Ron may have had his own reasons for keeping it so. Prison walls tended to have bigger ears than most.

‘It appears,’ he said, as he hung up at the end of the conversation, ‘that he once shared a cell with a chef who had a crush on the real Claye Beardmore.’

‘’E was doing time for demanding money with menaces off one of the female customers using an offensive weapon,’ said Elsie. ‘To wit, a potato peeler!’

‘That doesn’t sound very offensive,’ said the Director.

‘It depends where you put it,’ said Elsie darkly. ‘’Er wallet wasn’t the only thing ’e was after!’

‘You must let me know the name of the restaurant,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I shall make sure it doesn’t appear, if and when we issue a guide to the United Kingdom.’

‘Anyway,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘the man Ron shared a cell with was so obsessed with Mrs Beardmore, he not only had her pin-up on the wall, he used to sleep with it under his pillow at night. Ron says it was nothing remotely like the person staying at the Pommes d’Or.’

‘Satisfied?’ asked Elsie.

The others hardly had time to absorb the latest bit of news before Monsieur Pamplemousse’s own
phone rang. It was Doucette, confirming Pommes Frites’ safe arrival.

‘He wasn’t too upset by the journey?’ he asked. ‘I made sure he had some clean sheets to lie on.’

‘He seems to have picked up a cold somewhere,’ said Doucette. ‘He hasn’t stopped sneezing since he got here. Either that or it’s the chocolates you sent me. You know what he’s like …’

‘Chocolates?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t send them,’ said Doucette. ‘They arrived by special courier about an hour ago. I haven’t tried one yet – they look very expensive.’

It was yet another case of
alors on a compris
.

‘Don’t!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Whatever you do, Couscous, don’t touch them until I get back.’

Pressing the OFF button, he turned to the others. ‘Hold everything,’ he said grimly. ‘It is all systems go. The worst is about to happen!’

By the time Monsieur Pamplemousse reached the Pommes d’Or a warning had already gone out over the France Info radio news channel. Carefully worded so as not to alarm the public at large, but strong enough to deter anyone from touching any unsolicited chocolates delivered by hand as part of an introductory offer; it simply said there had been a production fault and to take the box to the nearest police station as soon as possible in case the contents got into the hands of small children.

No doubt more specific warnings were being issued to possible targets as a matter of top priority. In one respect at least, the other side had miscalculated, or events had forced their hand. France no longer adhered to the concept of the whole of August being set aside for the annual holidays. They were now
much more staggered. A good example of that was the 16
^th
arrondissement
of Paris, where a good half of the population appeared to have taken off already.

Bonnard was huddled over his controls when Monsieur Pamplemousse entered the Security Control Room. He looked harassed.

‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, glancing up. ‘Whatever it is, I would rather not know. It’s turning out to be one of those days. Following that bomb outrage the other night, there’s been a miniature tidal wave of guests heading back to the States. Now one of our Trottinettes has gone missing and we’ve only just taken delivery. The manager’s livid!

‘You wouldn’t believe it was possible. Seven riders took off this morning to visit Napoleon’s tomb. Only six returned.’

‘Strictly speaking,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I have to admit I am here in an unofficial capacity, but I need some information and I need it quickly. If necessary, I can go higher in order to get it.’

‘
Pas de problème,
’ sighed Bonnard. ‘Same deal as before. I’ve already had instructions to help you in every way possible.’

Good, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. Now we know where we stand. The Director certainly hadn’t been idle.

Bonnard settled back in his chair. ‘Forget what I said earlier. I’m all ears. What can I do for you?’

‘The last time we met,’ said Monsieur
Pamplemousse, ‘you said you could provide me with a blow-up of a man in the restaurant, but it wouldn’t be of particularly high quality. Forget the lack of pixels. I’d like whatever you have.’

‘Ah, the mysterious Beardmores. We were talking about them just before you came in.’ Bonnard directed one of his subordinates to put the matter in hand. ‘We had a sneaking suspicion that might be what you were after.

‘As I said the last time you were here, they’re a funny couple … there’s none so strange as people. That’s certainly true in the hotel trade. You see all sorts.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse took the blow-up he had asked for and stared at it for a moment or two. Once again he had a strange feeling they had met somewhere before, but he had no idea where …

‘You wouldn’t like a picture of Mrs Beardmore while we are at it, would you?’ Bonnard broke into his thoughts.

‘I’ll take anything you’ve got,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

He watched while the other reached for a mouse and moved a cursor quickly to and fro across his computer screen. Then he pressed the left-hand button and Claye Beardmore’s face appeared on another display unit in front of Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Why is the quality so much better?’ he asked.

‘Because it is on the Face Recognition security system,’ said Bonnard. ‘Not the cameras used by the kitchen. They are not really interested in people, only what’s left on their plates.’

‘Tell me about Face Recognition.’

‘It depends a lot on how big a database you have and how it’s arranged. Ours covers current guests and those likely to revisit. If they don’t return in a year they get wiped. We also have records we can refer to of known criminals who specialise in the hotel trade; people with a history of break-ins, assaults on lonely females, confidence tricksters. It’s constantly being updated.

‘From then on it is a matter of biometrics. The use of certain measurements: distances between the eyes, shape of the mouth and nose, the physical relationship between them, that kind of thing. What is commonly known as spatial geometry. There’s nothing really new about that. It dates back to Leonardo da Vinci’s time. He was one of the first to study it. The eyes, the iris and the retina, are reckoned to be the most useful areas. Unlike the rest of a person’s face, they change very little over the years.

‘For it to work properly you need to have faces filling the screen, preferably straight on, level with the camera. Then the system can make comparisons with existing pictures on the database. Anything else and it gets confused. That’s why it doesn’t
work too well in crowds – as yet.’

‘How do you get pictures in the first place without the person knowing?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Simple. We use what is known in the business as a “face trap”. There is a moment at the check-in desk when people registering turn to face the clerk. The camera is in the wall behind him. Funny thing, there’s a red light just where they need to look and most people do. They can’t help themselves. The person at the desk momentarily moves to one side, pretending to look for something, presses a button, and, hey presto!’

‘So why don’t you have picture of Monsieur Beardmore, if that is who he says he is?’

Bonnard shrugged. ‘His wife must have done the checking in. If you ask me, by the sound of it she wears the trousers anyway. Besides, nothing’s perfect. In fact it’s a prime example of the kind of blip that arises in the current stage of development. I guess the two of them must have something in common because he was one of those booked out on the Segway trip this morning and when he went past the security cameras it threw up a picture of his wife.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the screen and then at the blow-up in his hand. His mind had suddenly gone into overdrive. ‘When I had lunch the other day,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘my own database had a similar problem.’

‘What else can we help you with?’ asked Bonnard.

‘Two things … no, three. No … make it four …

‘One: when you said they checked in as Monsieur and Madame Beardmore, did they actually arrive together?

‘Two: Is Madame Beardmore still in her room? If not, where is she?

‘Three: Who was actually riding the missing Segway?

‘Four: Where is it now?’

‘Help yourself to coffee,’ Bonnard nodded towards a machine behind them,

‘There’s some Krispy Kremes as well. Make yourself comfortable. It may take a little while.’

Not having taken full advantage of the Director’s lunch, Monsieur Pamplemousse was grateful for anything going.

In the event he didn’t have long to wait. Bonnard looked slightly shamefaced when he called him over a few minutes later with most of the answers.

‘Rule number one,’ he said, smacking his wrist in mock punishment. ‘Never take anything for granted in this business.

‘As for your first question, we struck lucky with the check-in. One of the girls was on evening duty at the time and remembers Mrs Beardmore’s arrival because of her Zimmer frame. She said, “once seen, never forgotten”.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had difficulty in
suppressing a smile. The girl had it in a nutshell. It was hard to fault Bonnard’s enthusiasm for his work, but it didn’t need a state-of-the-art computer system to pin-point Mrs Beardmore in a crowd. He could have recognised her from a kilometre away.

‘She also remembers hearing her say her husband had problems with his luggage back at the airport and would be along later. She thought maybe he had ideas of his own for an evening on the tiles, for which she wouldn’t blame him.’

‘And did he turn up later in the evening?’

‘I’m still waiting for an answer on that one. The girl I was talking to had to hang up. It was a busy period.

‘Two: Mrs Beardmore isn’t in her room. The room-maid says their suitcases are still there and there’s a wardrobe full of clothes and various other odds and ends, but they haven’t checked out, or at least if they have they didn’t pay the bill. The concierge hasn’t seen her either. They are paging her now, but so far there’s no sign.

‘As for the Trottinette: Mrs Beardmore made the booking, but the person riding it was none other than, guess who?’

‘Mr Beardmore?’

‘
Exactement
! And where is it now? We struck lucky again. Apparently they met up with the official Segway Tour near the Hôtel des Invalides. Their lot were returning to base in the rue Edgar
Faure. Their ETA after a four-hour tour is normally around three o’clock. There was a bit of a mix-up and in the confusion he must have taken the wrong turning and gone off on his own …’

‘Does anything strike you about the whole thing?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘One and one doesn’t necessarily make two,’ said Bonnard. ‘As far as we know, nobody has ever seen the Beardmores together …’

‘I think,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘we are on the same wavelength.’

Bonnard gave a whistle between his teeth. ‘You think Mr and Mrs Beardmore are one and the same person. It would figure. But why? Assuming it’s a him pretending to be a her, rather than vice versa, what is he? Some kind of nutcase? It doesn’t make the room rate any cheaper. So, he likes dressing up as a woman. Who cares these days?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse could think up all manner of answers, but it was neither the time nor the place to give them.

‘Right now he is heading towards the Eiffel Tower …’ said Bonnard.

‘He has been seen?’

‘All our Segways come with electronic tagging so we can locate them. At not far off five thousand euros a throw, we can’t afford to lose any.’

‘How fast do they go?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘They have two fixed speeds – either eight or just under fifteen kilometres an hour. They normally use cycle lanes or the pavement, so that’s the maximum they are allowed to do by law. When you meet some of the people at the controls you can see why.’

‘
Merde
!’ It couldn’t be worse. The whole area around the Eiffel Tower was a sea of people most days of the year. During the summer months it was at its worst. While Beardmore was still on the Segway there would be no problem, but once he’d dismounted it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

‘I must go,’ he said.

‘
Bonne chance
!’ Bonnard picked up on the urgency in his voice. ‘I don’t know what it’s all about. You must tell me one day. In the meantime, leave me your mobile number and I’ll be in touch if anything more turns up.

‘You could try the police post,’ he added, while Monsieur Pamplemousse jotted his number down before taking off. ‘It’s in the south pillar of the actual tower.’

‘I know it well,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Foot down on the throttle, taking full advantage of as many short cuts as he could, he reached the Parc du Champs de Mars in record time. Abandoning his 2CV on a pedestrian crossing at a point where the rue de l’Université met up with
the avenue de la Bourdonnais, he ran the last hundred or so metres into the Parc.

On the way he passed three manacled youths being ‘helped’ into the back of a police car. Pickpockets must be out in force. That, in turn, meant crowds. It didn’t augur well. He switched on his mobile.

Reaching the east pillar, he slowed down to a walk and his heart sank as he surveyed the scene. It was even worse than he had expected. Lines of tourists queuing for the lifts that would take them aloft for a bird’s-eye view of Paris snaked their way in all directions. The queues for refreshments and souvenirs on the far side looked, if anything, even longer.

Hard-faced army patrols in camouflage battle dress, FA MAS assault rifles at the ready, fingers permanently on the trigger, were making their presence felt. Their eyes were everywhere as they strolled slowly in groups of three amongst the crowd. It should have been a source of comfort, but it wasn’t. Try asking one of them if they had seen a man on a Segway and he would probably receive a very dusty answer.

He suddenly realised how much he missed Pommes Frites. It was the kind of situation where he came into his own, lending an aura of quiet authority in the process.

He was about to make his way across to the
south pillar in the forlorn hope that someone in the police station would be able to help, when his mobile rang.

‘You’re in the right area,’ said Bonnard. ‘It looks as though he’s abandoned ship near the Seine – on the right bank near the Pont de l’Alma. The Segway has been stationary for the last five minutes.’

It was all he needed. Apart from the close proximity of a Metro station and another entrance for the RER line nearby, there were at least four bus routes to choose from, heading in all directions. As if that weren’t enough, it was also the boarding point for numerous
Bateaux-mouches
trips along the Seine.

Aware for the first time that everywhere he looked there were vans of riot police parked, Monsieur Pamplemousse stood where he was for a moment or two, unsure what to do next.

A second call from Bonnard made up his mind for him.

‘Your wife has been trying to get hold of you. I said I would let you know.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had a momentary feeling of panic in the pit of his stomach. If Bonnard was correct with his positioning of the Segway, and Beardmore was looking to make good his escape on public transport, it could be a number 80 bus heading for the rue Caulaincourt and Montmartre.
It was too close to home for comfort.

He tried returning Doucette’s call, and having received no response, set off as fast as he could to where he had left his car, cursing his lack of foresight. During the intervening time it could have been towed away. The authorities moved fast these days when they felt like it.

To his relief, it was still where he had left it. Jumping in, he headed for the Seine, eventually joining a stream of traffic heading north across the Pont de l’Alma.

Almost immediately he realised it was hardly moving, but by then he was beyond the point of no return. The reason for the hold-up became obvious when he eventually reached the other side of the river.